


When the East Wind Falls Silent

by ampersand_ch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Drama & Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhaustion, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Hospitalization, M/M, Murder, Organized Crime, Secrets, Shooting, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 05:13:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6502048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ampersand_ch/pseuds/ampersand_ch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is called back from exile by his brother in order to catch Moriarty, who has resurfaced in a televised message. The task which awaits Sherlock goes far beyond anything he feared. Starts at the end of HLV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/gifts).
  * A translation of [Wenn der Ostwind schweigt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3371498) by [ampersand_ch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ampersand_ch/pseuds/ampersand_ch). 



> Many sincere thanks to SwissMiss who translated this story from German into English, making it available for lots of readers.  
> Thank you, SwissMiss, for your dedicated work!
> 
> Author Notes:  
> Something happens in this story that some readers may find upsetting. I am deliberately not tagging or warning for it because it would be a pretty big spoiler. If you have concerns or specific triggers that you are worried about, however, you can find the spoiler here: [LINK](http://swissmarg.livejournal.com/182558.html)

"The east wind carrieth him away, and he departeth: and as a storm hurleth him out of his place."  
– Job 27:21

"They are as stubble before the wind, and as chaff that the storm carrieth away."  
– Job 21:18

"Though he be fruitful among his brethren, an east wind shall come, the wind of the Lord shall come up from the wilderness, and his spring shall become dry, and his fountain shall be dried up: he shall spoil the treasure of all pleasant vessels."  
– Hosea 13:15

 

***

It smelled of disinfectant, just like any other hospital. They walked silently beside each other down the cool, antiseptic corridor. Sherlock hadn't wanted to come. He was doing it for John. And maybe for Mary too.

"In here," John said, going over to a door with opaque glass and opening it.

This corridor smelled different. Light, with a hint of sweetness. Colourful pictures on the walls. Sherlock stopped in front of a huge bulletin board. Birth announcements. Every baby looked identical to the next. More or less.

 _A little ray of sunshine has fallen into our lives. We are overjoyed at the arrival of our daughter Felicitas Maria Defago._ Date, weight, length.

 _The Lord has blessed us richly. We thank Him for our son Josef Antonius Labroughin._ Date, weight, length.

_A new soul has found its way to us. Eliane Penelope Christina Meyer..._

Somehow the birth of a child seemed to rob its parents of all decent language. What would John and Mary write? No hackneyed sayings, Sherlock hoped. They would keep it simple. _We are happy to announce the birth of our daughter..._

"Sherlock, you coming?"

Sherlock nodded, looking up and catching John's eye. John had stopped and was waiting for him.

"Everything okay? You ready?"

Was he ready? He hadn't wanted to come. Mary in her maternity bed. The mysterious glow her eyes of a woman who had just given birth. Suffered pain to bring a new human being into the world; an unknown person, created out of John and Mary's genetic material. Pushed forth into the world. Pushed forth onto them, John and Mary and him. Into this unsettled, dangerous environment. An innocent creature. Dependent. Defenseless. Exposed. The drama of a new life. He'd sworn to protect this new stranger.

"Sherlock?"

Impatience flashed in John's eyes for a fraction of a second. Then they became pensive, scrutinising him. This was John's child. The child of the person Sherlock was closest to. The only person Sherlock was close to. Sherlock tried to smile. He wanted to be happy. But John saw right through him. Sherlock could see it in his eyes, the worry remaining, the lack of a smile. 

Something had changed between them. It wasn't a game anymore. That had changed in those long moments when they'd said good-bye in front of the plane, separating with a long handshake, their eyes locked helplessly on each other, an unbearable kaleidoscope of emotions, fear and sadness no longer manageable, beneath that a current of knowledge and certainty. All their words gone. All their thoughts dispersed. Every action suspended. 

The return after a mere four minutes a shock. He hadn't been able to handle it. He'd hesitated to exit the plane, had stayed in his seat with his eyes closed, a churning chaos in his chest and in his head. He hadn't really understood that it was over until he'd been told to disembark. Understood that he was back on London's soil. Back at the point that had cost every bit of strength he had mere minutes ago, both mentally and emotionally. 

He'd stepped off the plane exhausted and gone over to John, who was still standing there with Mary, likewise unable to cope. He'd looked into John's eyes. Mute. Still smarting from their farewell. Mary had hugged him. Gentle and careful, aware of the fact that he was incapable of reacting. It was all too much. He hadn't been able to take his eyes off of John, even as Mary hugged him. Mary's warm body with the child inside. John's eyes. There was so much he'd wanted to say to him but hadn't. It had been too much for him. For him and for John too.

Mary was sitting up in bed, typing something on her laptop when John and Sherlock came in. She was pale and looked worn out, but she smiled when John greeted her with a kiss. Sherlock nodded to her. But then he reconsidered, leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

"Congratulations."

"Thank you, Sherlock."

No glorified light in the blue eyes. Mary's gaze was lucid and matter-of-fact. John had leaned over the mobile cot standing next to Mary's bed in the meantime.

"Go ahead and take her out," said Mary. "She likes that."

John peeled back the pink flowered blanket and lifted the child out, cradling it in his arm. A little worm. It was packed up in a bundle of cloth, its little arms bent and sticking out the top, the sleeves of the white cotton onesie folded back several times over the wrists, such tiny fists. The head with the surprisingly dark hair, the eyes squinting, the skin red and wrinkled. A scratch on the forehead. It had been a long and difficult birth.

"Here, this is my daughter," John said.

Smiling, he turned to Sherlock, who gave the bundle a sceptical look.

"You don't need to say she's beautiful," said Mary. "She's only just been born."

"If she's inherited her parents' skills, she won't need to be beautiful," said Sherlock.

Mary laughed.

"The beauty will come," John declared. "Here."

He moved in as if to hand the bundle over to Sherlock, but Sherlock flinched away.

"Come on," John cajoled. "She's my daughter. Take her!"

"She's only been alive for a couple of hours," Sherlock said warily.

"Come on," John said, gently this time. He went to Sherlock and placed the bundle in his arms, correcting his friend's positioning with his hand.

"That's perfect, just like that. You need to support her head."

Sherlock stared down at the creased face, the wet lips perfectly formed for suckling, the firmly clenched fists. The infant was sound asleep. A mild, sweet scent rose from her. Milk, vanilla, honey. Sherlock's eyes met John's. John was smiling. A thoughtful smile, with a warmth in it that confused Sherlock. Sherlock searched John's eyes for several long moments, trying to find the message being shared between them. It wasn't the child that made John smile like that. It was the baby and him, the two of them, the combination together. It was the shyness and awkwardness with which he held the bundle. And it was the unwavering, very basic trust of the child in his arms. Of this new, clueless human being. Just arrived. It was all the changes. New emotions. Untried. For him and for John. For all of them. A new story had begun, an unknown adventure. It scared Sherlock.

He gave the baby back to John. He didn't dare to move the arm she was resting on. John accommodated him, carefully reclaiming the child. Their arms touched during the maneouvre, their fingers brushed; their gazes. Sherlock inhaled John's familiar scent, just briefly, mixed with milk, vanilla, honey. John smiled at him again before returning the newborn to the cot. That warmth, there was still that warmth in his eyes.

Sherlock turned to Mary. She sat in the bed, the laptop on the nursing pillow. She'd stopped writing. Their eyes met. Sherlock's and Mary's. Serious. And Sherlock realised that she knew of his fear, his fear of what had been and what was coming. She was scared too.

Mary's visit to Baker Street ten days earlier, about to give birth: _'If you do any digging into Copernicus-SL3, Sherlock, sooner or later you're going to come across a name whose initials will sound familiar. I want you to know.' – 'A.G.R.A.?'_ he'd asked, wary, and Mary had fallen silent. Their gazes had met. Sober and lingering. Like now.

Mary was a professional, like him, someone with a heightened sense of danger and threat. Moriarty or someone pretending to be him had made sure that his exile was cut short, that he could be with John and Mary, that he saw the child. It was no coincidence. Someone was playing a game somewhere in the background. A frighteningly precise game. Mary knew it as well as he did. He had shot Magnussen, but it wasn't enough.

 

***

 

Sherlock took a taxi back to Baker Street. The flat was empty without John. Even now. It smelled abandoned. Like dust and stuffy air. It was cool and lifeless, a collection of soulless objects. John was missing. Something in Sherlock's chest clenched tight, just for a moment; he'd become used to that clenching whenever he entered the flat. The smell of emptiness. Sherlock started up his laptop. Mycroft had sent him more information about the case.

They didn't know much about what was behind Moriarty's television appearance. Three weeks and they'd barely made any progress at all. A special commission had been appointed. It was charged with finding out how it had been possible to override the national television broadcast. And they were supposed to re-think the security system. The technical side of things had been easy to figure out. Someone had hacked into the digital infrastructure of the broadcaster, reset the frequencies and sent the clip over a transponder channel of the Astra system via the earth observation satellite Copernicus-SL3. After that the frequencies had been set back by the hacker. That was unusual. The culprit had cleaned up after themselves, left everything the way it had been originally. The whole thing smacked of the kind of professionalism that made the security experts' hair stand on end. Someone must have manipulated the satellite for this specific purpose. That indicated a well-organised, extremely powerful party. But what was the reason for it all? Who was behind it? 

Sherlock scrolled through the technical data on Copernicus-SL3. The satellite was up there in orbit and no one knew what it was capable of or what it had been programmed to do. _'A Trojan horse,'_ Mary had said. _'I can't tell you anything more without endangering all of us. But I can give you a hint: MDA and CSIS.'_ Copernicus-SL3 had been launched into orbit three years earlier with the purpose of transmitting data about the weather and environment. The Canadian company that had built it, McDonald Dettwiler and Associates, Ltd. – MDA for short – had sent a technical brief upon request. It was better than nothing, but it wasn't enough.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. It wasn't enough. Moriarty. Why Moriarty? Moriarty was dead, his network smashed. Could he rule him out? Or had he overlooked something? What did the Canadian Security Intelligence Service, CSIS, have to do with it? Was Mary Canadian? He'd suspected from the start that she wasn't British. Had she worked for the CSIS back then, three years ago? 

Mary had asked him not to involve John. He'd stuck to that up to now. But he didn't feel good about it. John was his friend. His only and best friend. John was a soldier and his comrade-in-arms when it came to chasing down criminals. But he was also a husband. Husband to Mary, who had just given birth and against whom he might need to direct his investigation. John was also a father. The innocent bundle. Sherlock could have used John at his side, now more than ever, for this difficult case that involved both of them so directly. He wanted to be honest with him, lay all his cards on the table. He wanted to debate the points with him, follow up on leads. He hadn't actually promised Mary anything. Should he talk to John after all?

So much to think about. Relationships. So many concerns, and yet it was unavoidable. It wasn't good. Sherlock knew that. It got in his way. Too much consideration for others. Too many emotions. He was going in circles. He needed to get clear on which path to take. 

Sherlock looked at the screen of his smart phone next to him on the table. It was buzzing. Mycroft.

"Hello, Sherlock. How is your baby?"

"Fine," Sherlock said brusquely, without reacting to the veiled suggestion that he bore part of the parental burden. "Any news?"

"The Yard has taken a man into custody who worked for MDA in Oxfordshire. He programmed the satellite back in the day. There appear to be some discrepancies."

"Discrepancies? What's that supposed to mean?"

"The documentation of the data was manipulated. The satellite was never actually programmed the way it was supposed to be from the start. I thought you might like to be present for the interrogation."

"Of course. When? Where?"

"Four p.m. I've arranged for a helicopter to bring you to Oxfordshire. The taxi will pick you up at Baker Street in ten minutes. You'll receive a digital file on your way there with all the intelligence we have on the man. Oh, and by the way: Interpol has been called in. The satellite operates internationally, so the Canadian manufacturer insisted."

"Fine. I'll report back."

"Oh, and Sherlock..."

"Yes?"

"I've sent a two-person security detail to Mary and the baby. Quite unobtrusive. She won't notice anything. I assume you are in agreement."

Sherlock stared at his laptop, still displaying the technical data. His heart was beating fast and hard. That was unexpected. What did Mycroft know?

"Yes. Thank you," he said quietly.

"It's best if you don't say anything to John. You know how he is, always so quick to become upset. We don't want anything to mar his happiness as a new father, do we?"

"Since when have you been so sympathetic?"

"Oh, I've always been, brother mine. You simply never noticed."

"Right." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'll be ready in ten minutes."

He ended the call and entered John's number.

"John. I'm flying to Oxfordshire. Mycroft's sending me. The Yard has a lead. I should be back tomorrow, or the day after at the latest."

"Do you need me?"

Sherlock hesitated a moment. Then he said gently – and he didn't know why he said it; maybe because it was on his mind so much – "The flat is empy without you." John breathing. Astonished, perhaps. Several heartbeats of silence between them. "Mary and the baby need you now, John. Stay with them and take good care of them. I'll let you know as soon as I'm back. We'll know more then."

"Okay." John sounded unhappy.

"Stay alert. We don't know what's coming."

"I'll do what I can, Sherlock. Take care of yourself."

"Yes, I will."  



	2. The First Signs

Sherlock threw himself across the bed at the hotel. The interrogation had only been a partial success. The man they'd brought in had clammed up with a stubbornness they hadn't been able to break through. But he'd still given a couple of things away. Not in so many words. But Sherlock's gift for observation had allowed him to make deductions. Which in turn made it possible to take the next step, at least. Sherlock wasn't sure whether he should act alone or inform his colleagues from the Yard. He didn't trust Interpol. He was almost positive that one of the officials from Interpol who'd been present for the interrogation had been acquainted with the suspect. Even though he'd made every effort to hide it: body language didn't lie. Sherlock had an eye for it. Not only with criminals.

He also saw John's body language and knew perfectly well how to interpret it. He could have deduced it down to the last detail, but that wasn't necessary. It was enough to observe his own reactions, to understand the language of his own body. And he did understand it. He didn't suffer from a lack of perceptiveness. No, what unsettled him was the effort it took to ignore it. John. He should contact him.

_Everything OK on your end, John? SH_

_All OK. Where are you? JW_

_Hotel. Research on Copernicus. SH_

_Results? JW_

_Still need to check MDA. Back tomorrow. SH_

_OK. Take care of yourself. JW_

_You too. SH_

 

***

 

The campus of McDonald Dettwiler and Associates Ltd was locked down. The porter looked Sherlock over suspiciously, comparing his face with the photograph on his ID.

"MDA Richmond? It's two a.m."

"I know. I just flew in from Canada, from the head office in Richmond. It's about the Iphigenia project. I'm supposed to be helping Mr Legganis. Paul Legganis. He's the technical project director."

"Hold on."

The porter checked something in his computer.

"Paul Legganis is no longer on site, Mr Felber. He went home an hour ago."

"I know. That's not a problem. He left the files for me. I'm supposed to pick them up. We have a meeting early in the morning."

"I'm sorry, but I can't just let you in, sir."

"I need those files rather urgently. Could you get them for me?"

Sherlock knew the porter wasn't supposed to leave his post, and wasn't about to. He smirked when the man said, "Sorry, I can't do that. I'm not allowed to leave my post."

"Then let me get the files, Mr..." Sherlock leaned forward in order to read the nametag. "Mr Cargony. I've been here with Paul Legganis several times and I know the way to his office. You should be able to verify that in your visitor log. I'll only be a couple of minutes."

The porter clicked around in the visitor log. Finally, he said hesitantly, "All right. Just this once, Mr Felber."

The porter took his time noting down the number of the guest badge with the access authorisations, put it into a clear plastic holder with a clip and slid it through the gap in the window along with the Canadian employee ID.

"There you go, Mr Felber."

"Thanks, you're really helping me out here," Sherlock said politely and clipped the badge to his coat.

The night shift was at work in the manufacturing gallery at McDonald Dettwiler and Associates Ltd. Lights were on in some of the offices too. Sherlock went straight to the IT department. A dozen people were working there in the open-plan office, all focused on their computers. It looked like they were running a simulation. The smaller office with the detained employee's desk was sealed. 

Sherlock opened the door, ignoring the tearing of the red-and-white tape. Six desks. One had been emptied. The officers from the Yard had taken the computer and all the files with them. Sherlock rummaged through the drawers, desks, and filing cabinets. Blueprints, documentation, contracts. If there were any files on the manipulated earth observation satellite, they would be in digital form. He started up the computer on one of the desks. It looked almost pathologically tidy. A photograph of a woman and two children in front of a single-family home. The lower middle class dream. People like that were predictable. Sherlock turned the photograph around. _Dorthee with Jack and Amie_. Sherlock tried the password _Dorthee_. It didn't work. It probably required lowercase and uppercase letters plus a symbol, at least eight characters. He tried _Jack &Amie_. The computer launched the system software. Shortcuts. Folders. Directories. 

Sherlock searched for anything on the satellite, dug through project files. Copernicus-SL3 had been designed, built, programmed, and tested at MDA. The invoices showed a payment to an external IT consultant for configuration and coding, 182 hours. The man wasn't listed as a member of the project team and didn't appear in any of the project documentation, not even in the detailed to-do lists. Discrepancy. Sherlock wrote down the name, an employee of an IT consulting company in London.

The porter gave him a friendly wave when he returned his guest badge ten minutes later and left the MDA-Oxfordshire campus.

 

***

 

The IT consulting company in London didn't exist. Damn it! Not in London and not anywhere else in the world. Sherlock combed through the online company directories. This particular company had never existed, not even three years ago. On the other hand, there were hundreds of men named Jack Davis. It was a dead end. A red herring? Or had someone snuck into MDA under a fake name back then, three years ago? Why was there no mention of this consultant in the project files? Open questions. Lots of leads. No answers. Damn it! 

Sherlock ran both hands over his face. It was six in the morning. The day was dawning outside. He hadn't slept at all. He caught himself listening – for a fraction of a second – listening for John's footsteps on the stairs. But he wasn't at Baker Street. And John wasn't here. These old reflexes. When would it stop, when would it finally stop?

Sherlock got into the shower, let the hot stream of water beat down on his body. He was exhausted. Everything was topsy-turvy in his head and there was something prickling in his chest. He was restless. Mary. She was mixed up in the case. John didn't know about it. Both facts gave him cause for concern and irritated him. Things weren't good like this. They weren't good. Nothing was good. He knew it, he felt it. He didn't trust the Yard, much less Interpol. Mary's hint about CSIS set off all his alarm bells, but it was more confusing than helpful. Was the man from Interpol the key player? Were the investigators covering things up themselves? Why weren't they making any progress? Three weeks and no useful results. The situation was running even further aground. The facts were slipping away between his fingers. He couldn't see any way to proceed. He could only keep investigating with everything he had until the truth came out and a decision became possible. If there was one. He wasn't sure. He felt unsettled and alone.

When Sherlock got dressed ten minutes later, he saw that a message had come in. John.

_Is Sophie OK for you? Pi is hers. The rest comes from Sherlock. JW_

_Sophie_. A surge of emotion. Sherlock bit his lip. He was overtired.

The train to Paddington station left every twenty minutes. Something like two hours travel time. A hop, skip and a jump. Sherlock left around ten o'clock. He'd replied to John from the hotel already.

_Sophie is more than OK. Thank you! SH_

The name was a declaration of love. Sherlock wasn't a girl's name. Sherlock smiled as the countryside passed by outside. Flat farmland. The sky overcast. A grey cloud layer hovering over everything that lived and breathed. 

 

***

 

There were no indications of violence. The blanket on the bed was turned back. The nightshirt lay on the bed, the slippers in front of it. Mary's clothes and shoes were gone, she must have got dressed.

"A friend was visiting her, she wanted to take a turn round the park with her," said one of the security guards who'd been sent by Mycroft. She was a wiry, fit young woman disguised as an orderly.

"Dressed?"

"Yes, she got dressed beforehand. I followed them out. They got into a car and drove away."

"Plates?"

"London number. LD58 CFY. Registered in October 2008. A black Ford. Two men in the front, the driver and a front-seat passenger, Mary and her friend got in the back. They drove west. I informed Mr Holmes immediately as soon as I got back to the room and saw the baby was gone and none of the nursing staff knew anything about it."

"Did you have the impression that Mary Watson went willingly?" Sherlock asked.

The woman thought about it for a moment before saying, "I did notice that Mrs Watson didn't seem particularly happy about the visit. She looked concerned. And her friend held her arm until they got to the car."

"Thank you," said Sherlock, impressed at the woman's professionalism. "What about the baby?"

"She was lying asleep in her cot when Mary Watson left the room with her friend. She wasn't there when I came back. I didn't see anyone else myself."

Sherlock nodded. His gaze passed over John's grey, panicked eyes. Lestrade stood there like a fish out of water. Someone had picked Mary up and lured the security guards away. Someone else had used the opportunity to take the baby. Sophie. Two days old.

"Mary doesn't have any friends," John said.

"Janine?"

John shook his head.

"We never heard anything more from Janine. But there is a neighbour Mary talked to a lot during the pregnancy. Esther Mirror. Fifty-two years old, four kids and five grandkids. A quiet older lady. I can't imagine she had anything to do with it. She lives across the way."

"Experienced older people can trick us quite nicely, John."

"Okay," John said. It sounded pained. "Do you want to talk to her?"

"We'll take any leads and clues we can get. We're talking about Mary and Sophie here."

John's lips were a thin, grim line. His eyes walled off. A thick layer of glass. Impenetrable. A jab right in Sherlock's heart. The soldier. Withdrawn. Tough. Unapproachable.

_I've seen so many people die, Sherlock. In horrible ways. And sometimes I was the one who killed them._

Sherlock recalled that conversation with John. The only time they'd spoken of it, direct and unfiltered, a paradigm shift in his own perceptions, the image of John he'd created for himself. The caring doctor was just one side. There was also the John who killed without scruples when the situation called for it. John saved lives, but took them too. He had a hard time reconciling the two when he took the time to think about it, but he rarely did. He accepted both sides of his personality with astonishing equanimity. That was something that fascinated Sherlock about him. John was anything but nice and one-dimensional. John was a thrilling, infectious adventure.

"It was a young woman," said the security guard. "No way she was fifty-two. I'd say around thirty."

"Description?" Sherlock prompted.

"A little taller than Mrs Watson and thin. Quite thin. Short, dark hair. Jeans, a blouse and red jacket. A tattoo on her neck, I did notice that. A small spider descending out of her hair from a thread behind her left ear. Cute. Really nice. The tattoo, I mean, not the woman."

"Thank you," Sherlock said sincerely, without remarking on her last comment. He knew her words could have been misinterpreted and that the correction was therefore appropriate. He looked over at John. John shook his head, just barely. No words were necessary between them. John didn't know the woman she'd described.

"Where should we look?" Lestrade asked. He was trying to be forthright and confident, but his voice sounded helpless.

"Secure the evidence from the room here," Sherlock said. "Get all the prints from the cot and the door. Put out an APW on Mary, Sophie and the woman. And on the black Ford with the number LD58 CFY."

Sherlock met Greg's uncertain eyes.

"Put as many people on it as you can spare," he added. "Do you need backup from my brother?"

"No, it's fine. I'll put everyone we have on it."

"Good." Sherlock turned to the security guard. "Do you think you can do a sketch?"

"I've been trained for it," the woman replied succinctly.

They left. Lestrade, the security guard, and the nurses. Sherlock and John stayed behind.

"We'll find them," Sherlock said.

John nodded bitterly.


	3. The Spider

"What's going on here, Sherlock?"

John's voice was low but hard. He paced restlessly back and forth in front of the kitchen table. They'd driven back to John and Mary's place. Sherlock had taken Mary's laptop from the hospital, grabbing it quickly from the drawer in the nightstand. He'd logged into Mary's email and was now poking around in her files.

"Sherlock?"

John had stopped right in front of him and was looking down at him. Sherlock looked up. John's grey eyes. Searching. Demanding.

"What are you looking for?"

"Clues," Sherlock replied after a brief hesitation.

He knew himself that he'd avoided John's eye before answering. Just for a fraction of a second, a set of signals he didn't want to send. He'd given himself away. He was lying to John, hiding the truth from him. And he wasn't so naïve as to think that John wouldn't notice. Of course he'd noticed. Sherlock couldn't hide it, couldn't lie to John anymore. Sherlock didn't know exactly what had happened between them, what had changed. The facade was no longer working. He was betraying himself. Something in him was betraying him. Some sort of guilty conscience perhaps. A sense of responsibility. An emotion that kept getting in the way, that took control of his body language. Subtle, but efficient.

"Clues for what?" John asked.

His eyes had softened. He must have noticed that things were different now too. A long, lingering look. An extended silence between them. The grey eyes alert. Sherlock swallowed.

"John. Mary was involved in the Copernicus-SL3 project," he finally said.

The blood drained from John's face. Shock and disbelief flared up in his grey eyes before he closed them, lowered his head, struggled to maintain his composure. He stood there motionless in front of Sherlock for a long time, supporting himself with both arms on the kitchen table, his breaths coming fast and heavy. Sherlock waited. He was breathing faster too. He waited for John's reaction. He was afraid what it might be. But this was necessary. He needed John. Needed him at his side.

"I need your help, John," he said quietly.

John looked up. Looked into Sherlock's eyes.

"Where do you have that information from?" he asked. It sounded quite neutral.

"From Mary," Sherlock answered carefully.

"From Mary herself? What do you mean?"

"She came to me at the flat on Baker Street ten days before she gave birth and warned me, gave me some information. She suspected I would find it out one way or another anyway."

John swallowed. He took a deep breath and lowered his gaze. Then he straightened up, slowly, as if he were weighed down with leaden weights. His hands clenched into fists.

"Why didn't you tell me any of this, Sherlock?" he asked, his voice now raw, his eyes shuttered, his anger and disappointment barely suppressed anymore.

"Mary didn't want me to."

"Mary didn't want you to," John repeated dully.

He took a couple of abrupt steps toward the living room, heavy and unsteady, came back and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock recognised the gleam in those grey eyes. He knew John's bitterness was about to discharge at him in the form of anger in the next few seconds. And he knew he could take it. Just like he'd taken it so often before.

"I'm her husband, goddammit!" John spat bitterly. "Why would she tell you and not me? Why am I always left out of things? Why, Sherlock? And you're supposed to be my friend. Why don't YOU tell me anything? As soon as things got dangerous, you should have informed me!"

Sherlock didn't answer. John only got louder.

"We're talking about my wife here, do you even get that? And my child! Why didn't you tell me? Sherlock! Why are you working against me?"

"I'm not, John." Sherlock tried to speak calmly. "Mary didn't want to burden you with it and asked me to do the same."

"Not burden me?" John exhaled contemptuously. "My wife is kidnapped out of the maternity ward and my newborn child is stolen from me. But you don't want to burden me? What did you think was going to happen then?" John shouted the last sentence into Sherlock's face.

"John..."

"Damn it, Sherlock. I trusted you. Trust. Do you know what that means? Do you even know what trust is?"

"Yes," Sherlock said quietly. "I'm sorry, John, I..."

"Both of you lie to me, you and Mary. You lie to my face every single day. Keep the truth from me. You join forces and I'm kept in the dark on purpose. How long has that been going on? Hm? Since the beginning?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, John. She gave you the thumb drive with all the information, remember? YOU were the one who destroyed it. YOU didn't want to know anything about her past."

John's eyes sparked wildly. "Oh yes, I know. It's all MY fault. Once again. It's always my fault..." John bit his lip and turned away, pacing back and forth agitatedly. "Sophie's two days old. Two days, Sherlock! She's a helpless, innocent baby." John had stopped and spoken without looking at Sherlock, deflated now.

"I know."

"If you'd said something to me, I could have kept an eye on her, don't you see? I would have been more alert and might have been able to prevent it. But I was just sitting at home, clueless, when the two of them were abducted. And you were in Oxfordshire."

"I know, John. Please, let me explain."

"No."

"John!"

"No!" John had turned back around to face Sherlock. "I want you to leave now, Sherlock. Leave me alone."

John's voice had become calmer. His words were sober and firm. Sherlock hadn't thought he might be sent away.

"No," he said. "No, John."

"Leave."

"John. Please."

"Get out of my house, Sherlock. Leave me alone!"

John's anger was clearly audible again. He was standing in front of Sherlock, looking down into his eyes. He was hurt and disappointed. Sherlock saw it but didn't know whether to comply with John's wish or not; whether he should stay and placate him or leave. Give him space, give him time to deal with what had happened.

"I need you, John," he said simply. "I need you to find Mary and Sophie."

"You didn't need me before. And now you do all of a sudden? Lestrade's people will find them. _I_ don't need _YOU_ ," John said harshly.

John's blind rage. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment to shield himself from it, to distance himself. His heart was pounding painfully. It hurt. It would be better to leave until John had calmed down. Sherlock took a deep breath. Then he stood up, trying to catch John's eye.

"I will never leave you alone, John. Never. You know that, don't you?" he said softly.

"I know fairly well that you fucked me over for two years and apparently still are. Now get out!"

John's voice was like bitter gall. It hit Sherlock full force. A heavy lump in his chest squeezing his breath out. Sherlock left the flat quickly, without saying good-bye. He went down the stairs, pushed open the door at the bottom, fled out into the rainy night. The door closed behind him, locking automatically. Sherlock ran out onto the street, heedless, leaving the house behind. The night air burned in his lungs. Inside him was a jumble of thoughts and emotions. And the knowledge that what he was doing was wrong. He shouldn't walk away. This wasn't about hurt feelings. Those were the wrong priorities. This was about Mary and Sophie. It was a matter of life and death, and he needed John. Sherlock slowed his steps, then stopped. Hesitated. John was hurt, under a lot of stress, and striking out at everything. That was fine. He would have to put up with it. He owed John that much. Not to walk away now. Sherlock turned around and went back, rang up to John's flat. Waited. No reaction. He rang again, holding the button down for a long time. Nothing. He took out his phone and entered John's number. John didn't accept the call. 

A text: _John. I'm waiting downstairs. SH_

No reaction. Sherlock rang up again. Several times. Without result. He waited. A long time. Then he lowered himself with his back against the wall, staring out into the night. It had started to rain harder. The projecting roof over the entrance offered him some protection. There was a hole in his chest, a painful, burning hole. John was out of reach. In a deceptive, torturous way. Emotionally out of reach. No. Sherlock had to correct himself. They were well within reach of each other emotionally, but they were too sensitive, too vulnerable. And there was no emotion that formed a closer bond between them more relentlessly than their mutual hurt, their mutual rejection, their mutual pain. He couldn't work like this. He needed John.

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to relax. Tried to figure out what to do. The cold, rain-tinged air helped. Sherlock inhaled it deep into his lungs, let it cool his wounded heart and clarify his mind. He vaguely registered the light going on in the stairwell. The door opening and closing again. Then it was quiet. Rain beat down on the stones of the courtyard. Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head. They looked at each other silently. The light went out in the stairwell. Sherlock pushed himself away from the wall as John came closer. He was then pressed back against it by the force of John's body. After a second of shock and surprise, Sherlock took his hands out of his coat pockets and returned the embrace. Long and tight. His heart was racing. The feel of John's body through his coat, his entire weight, his strength. His warmth. A sigh in his ear. Breath on his neck. Sherlock closed his eyes and burrowed into the familiar scent. Rain beat down on the cobblestones, dripped from the jutting shelter overhead. It was astonishing that there were such simple, wordless things that could heal all wounds.

 

***

 

The London license plate LD58 CFY was registered to a Renault Twingo belonging to a young teacher. She didn't know anything, and there were several witnesses who were able to attest that that car had always had that number. No sign of a black Ford anywhere. Someone had probably forged the plates, at random most likely, and if they had changed them again after the deed was done, there was practically no chance of finding the vehicle that had been involved. There was still the sketch of the suspect. The APW hadn't returned any results. But there was the tattoo.

"A spider," Sherlock mused, "sits motionless in the middle of its web, registering every vibration in it, no matter how small or far away. And if something flies or falls into the web, the spider immediately goes to it, wraps that thing up until it's an immobilised bundle, clips it out of the web and sticks it under a leaf somewhere so it can suck it dry or dispose of it later, depending on whether it's edible for the spider or not. Correct? The first thing it does then is clean the web. Immediately. Because any little speck that gets stuck in it can disturb its perception."

Before John could respond to this explanation, Lestrade came into the office and dropped a pile of folders onto the table next to them with a bang.

"There have been six bodies with a spider tattoo that landed in the morgue over the past four years. Two criminals on record also have a similar tattoo. Both are currently sitting out their sentences."

Sherlock reached for the top folder and opened it, looking for the spider. An autopsy report. The spider was on the subject's bicep. A tarantula, big and hairy. That didn't match the security guard's description.

"That's a totally different kind of spider," John said. He'd leaned over Sherlock's shoulder to have a look at the file.

"And a different meaning," Sherlock agreed. "The woman had a small spider hanging from a thread. The thread is the message. It's emerging from her hair."

Next file. Lestrade pushed a chair toward John so that he could sit next to Sherlock, which he did.

"Here." John reached into one of the folders and took out a photograph. A long, thin thread coming out of the hair at the back of the person's neck, descending between the shoulder blades, where a tiny spider hung with its head pointing downward. It was lowering itself on the thread. Was that the message? 

The photograph was of the body of a young man, a student. John leaned his shoulder against Sherlock as he leafed through the autopsy report. Sherlock wasn't sure whether John was even aware of it. But Sherlock noticed. He didn't react to it, didn't move away. It was nice. Having John close was nice. John's warmth seeped through to Sherlock's body. He was more aware of it than ever, since that hug. He longed for John's warmth. In every sense of the word.

In all of the files, that was the only spider that matched the security guard's description. Sherlock tacked the dead man's name and the picture of the tattoo to the pinboard, and put two copies of the spider picture in his coat pocket.

"Are we following up on the spiders?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes. Tack up the others as well, even though they don't appear to be related right now. We don't know enough to exclude them yet. And Inspector, can you get me information on the two Interpol agents who are assigned to Copernicus?"

"Interpol? Whew..." Lestrade blew the air out of his lungs. His expression made it clear how unenthusiastic he was about the request. "Difficult," he said.

"I know. But you're our only chance," Sherlock said.

"I'll see what I can do."

"Can I use a computer?"

"Go ahead."

Lestrade pointed at an empty desk. Sherlock pulled up a map of London on the computer screen and called up the location of every tattoo studio. There were dozens.

"We'll start in the City. Can you do the western side? I'll start in the northeast."

John nodded and held out his hand wordlessley. Sherlock slipped one of the two copies of the spider picture into it.

"We'll meet back at Baker Street," Sherlock said.

John hesitated for a moment. Their eyes met.

"All right," John said slowly.

"Not good?"

"No, it's fine," John said, sounding preoccupied. He put the picture into his jacket and got up to leave. "See you later then."


	4. A Bitter Trail

There was scarcely a single square centimetre of skin on the man's body that wasn't decorated. He was huge, with the bulging muscles of his upper body covered only scantily by a sleeveless leather waistcoat. He carefully examined the picture of the spider that Sherlock held out to him. In the background the high-pitched buzz of the tattoo needles. Tattoos were being done at every station in the studio. It was well-frequented, one of the best addresses in London. Sherlock had been directed there with the tip that the spider might have come from there.

The hulking man took a magnifier out of a drawer and took a closer look at the spider.

"Dead body, yeah?" he asked calmly.

"Yes. We're looking for a woman who has a tattoo like this or a very similar one on her neck behind her left ear."

"This spider here's actually too small for a tattoo," the man said. His voice was deep, rich and friendly. "If a client came to me wanting to have this, I'd tell them to reconsider. Look, a tattoo occupies a permanent spot on your body, and ninety percent of the time I'd have to cover up something tiny like that with something bigger later on. You can hardly see it. Even if it looks nice."

"But you'd do it if the client insisted."

"Sure. Jeremy'd do it. He does spiders." The man turned toward the workspace. "Jeremy!" he called.

A small, gaunt man came over to them. He was well over fifty. His close-cropped hair was dyed pale blond and stuck out in every direction. He peeled a pair of ink-stained, medical-grade vinyl gloves off his hands and tossed them into the ready-standing bin. His hands were slender and perfectly manicured, Sherlock noted.

"Is this spider one of yours?"

The huge man held the picture out to him. The blond man looked at it closely. 

"Yeah," he said finally. "It was a while ago, though. The tattoo in this picture's two years old at most. How old is the picture?"

"Three years," said Sherlock.

The man nodded. "That makes five. Could be. What's this about?"

"We're looking for a woman with a spider like this behind her left ear. Did you ever tattoo one like that?"

"Sure, lots. Some on the left, some on the right, some in the back. Every body's different. I create the design for each client new every time. None of them are the same."

"Do you keep a list of your clients?" Sherlock asked.

The large man nodded and set to work on his computer.

"There were three or four women with the spider on the left," said the spider man. "The last one was somewhere around three months ago. And I've removed spiders like that twice."

"Removed?" Sherlock asked.

"Erased," the tattoo artist explained. "It's no problem with little ones like that."

"Do any traces remain?" Sherlock asked, his interest piqued.

"We blast the ink particles into microscopic bits with a picosecond laser, and they get broken down by the body. The tissue involved suffers a slight burn, but with such a minimal surface it heals up almost completely. Of course if you go looking, you'll always find tiny scars."

Sherlock asked for a print-out of the list with the six women who had either had a spider tattooed or removed from behind their left ear. The tattoo artist remembered one customer in particular, a thin woman around thirty years old with short, dark hair. Her name was Fabia Maher.

Two hours later, the woman was at the Yard being questioned. She'd been picked up from the kindergarten where she worked. Four hours later, it was clear she had nothing to do with the abduction. 

Sherlock paced back and forth in front of the pinboard at the Yard. One of the legal assistants had brought in a handful of foil sheets. Spiders hanging from threads. Three different sizes. They could be applied to the skin very easily, then washed off again. 

Detours that ate away at their time. The license plate, the tattoo. Someone was a master of distractions. Was the abduction of Mary and Sophie a distraction too? To keep them away from something else, something bigger? Copernicus. Sherlock was undecided. Was it more important to find Mary or to go after the satellite?

John sat on one of the chairs in Lestrade's office, drained and pale, watching as Sherlock pinned a note with the initials _A.G.R.A._ to Copernicus. John shook his head, distraught, and buried his face in his hands. Sherlock, who had sensed the movement behind him, turned around and looked at his friend with concern. He couldn't let him think too much, couldn't let him go under.

"John? I need a list of everyone Mary knew. Do you still have the guest list from your wedding?"

John took his hands away from his face. "Yes, of course."

"I need that list along with anyone else Mary had contact with. In person, email, Skype, phone. Anything you can find. Can you do that?"

"Yes." John stood up tiredly and picked up his jacket.

"Does Mary have a scar on her neck?" Sherlock asked. "A faint burn scar or anything like that?"

John stared off into the distance for a moment, apparently thinking.

"No," he said finally. "Not that I know of."

"Good. I'll join you in two hours at the latest."

"Okay."

John left without saying good-bye. He seemed exhausted and preoccupied. Sherlock wasn't sure it was a good idea to send him home on his own.

"Sherlock?"

Lestrade was waving at him from the other side of the office. He had the profiles of the two Interpol agents working on Copernicus on his screen. To be precise, Lestrade was logged in to the Interpol database.

"How did you get the login?" Sherlock asked. "As far as I know, the database is impossible for mere mortals to access, and extremely well protected."

Lestrade made a dismissive gesture. "Not so loud. And please don't ask, just hurry. We have twelve times ten seconds starting -- now!" 

Lestrade hit _Shift Alt m_ and moved out of the way to let Sherlock at the computer.

"You'll be kicked out after ten seconds if you don't enter the security code. Shift Alt m. Every ten seconds. Twelve times, then we'll be locked out."

Sherlock nodded. Lestrade had set up a timer next to the computer.

"Don't print anything," Lestrade said. "It would be registered. But you can copy any of the contents."

Sherlock nodded, highlighted the profile of the Interpol employee, copied it into an external text document. _Shift Alt m_. Next profile. Steffen Boyd, the one who'd stuck out to him. Copy -- paste -- save. _Shift Alt m_. Steffen Boyd's assignments over the last five years. Copy -- paste -- save. _Shift Alt m_. Sherlock did a search for Copernicus. Several large documents came up. Sherlock scanned them, _Shift Alt m_ , copied a three-page list of names, a table with time and location coordinates. _Shift Alt m_. A project description. Copy -- paste. _Shift Alt m_. He searched for _'A.G.R.A.'_ Full text search. The computer scanned the entire database. The second hand ticked relentlessly on. _Shift Alt m_. The search paused, then continued. _Shift Alt m_. The computer was still searching. _Shift Alt m_. A list of references to another database. The one belonging to the Canadian secret service, CSIS. Sherlock skimmed it, copied it. _Shift Alt m_.

"Twenty seconds left," Lestrade said. 

Sherlock nodded wordlessly. He clicked on one of the linked references. The login page of CSIS. Sherlock copied the URL, entered _AGRA_ for the username. _Shift Alt m_. Ten more seconds. Sherlock entered _Copernicus &MDA_ for the password. He knew he didn't have any chance of finding the right one in just a few seconds. He decided against trying _MaryMorstan_ at the last second. He didn't know whether his login attempt would be registered somewhere and betray Mary.

"We need to enter the final code, otherwise we'll be registered. Let me get on."

Lestrade shoved Sherlock roughly off the chair and hit a combination of keys. The popup _'Login Failed'_ appeared quickly on the screen before the window closed.

Sherlock and Lestrade looked at each other.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, honestly impressed.

Lestrade smiled. "I have a couple of friends in the IT field."

"You mean the hacker scene," Sherlock corrected him.

Lestrade made a face, but didn't respond. He made two printouts of the data Sherlock had copied, then deleted everything from his computer, emptied the waste bin, and deleted the cache and browser history. 

"I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't spread around where you got that information from."

"I'm not going to put my extemely fruitful cooperation with you at risk," Sherlock answered, pleased.

He sat down at an unused desk and set to work studying the new, highly interesting material. Shortly before nine p.m., he carefully gathered up the loose papers, put them into an envelope, addressed it to himself and dropped it into the basket for outgoing mail before leaving the Yard.

 

***

 

Sometimes fate shows its hand. They say fate is blind. And just as the east wind blows or falls still at its own whim, regardless of what may happen, fate shows its hand from time to time and throws the dice. With blinders on. Not caring how they fall. Even when the east wind is sleeping. In the darkest hour of a terrible night.

Sherlock had decided to pay a visit to Steffen Boyd and sent John a text letting him know he'd be late. The Interpol agent's profile included a residential address in London. A neighbourhood with blocks of condominiums, posh area. But that wasn't what prompted Sherlock to go to the West End. Steffen Boyd's file also included a note that he had been a member of a project team working on Copernicus. During the production phase three years ago. What was Interpol doing mixed up in a Canadian satellite project? That was the question Sherlock wanted to ask Steffen Boyd.

The lights were on in Boyd's flat. Sherlock rang the buzzer. A young man opened the door. Definitely not Boyd himself. Maybe his son.

"I'd like to speak to Steffen Boyd," Sherlock said.

The young man smiled. "Come right in, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock did a double take. How did the man know his name?

"And who are you?" Sherlock asked as he followed the man into the living room.

"That's not important. Please, have a seat."

Sherlock sat down on the chair he was offered, but stood right back up again as soon as the man left the room, rummaged around in the bookcase, the pile of mail that was lying out. He opened the drawers of the sideboard and leafed through the papers, quickly and silently sliding the drawer closed behind his back when the man came back into the room.

"Steffen Boyd is expecting you," he said courteously as he held open the door to the next room for Sherlock.

It was Boyd's study. Steffen Boyd sat at his desk, leaning back in his chair. His mouth was open, as were his eyes. There was a small red spot on his forehead. A bullet had entered his skull, barely any blood, a professionally carried out kill shot. Just the one. Boyd was dead.

"Good evening, Mr Holmes. What a surprise."

It was a man's voice, and it confused Sherlock. It sounded familiar, but it wasn't precisely the voice he remembered, and it couldn't be anyway. Magnussen was dead. He'd shot him himself. Sherlock turned around. Three weapons were aimed at him: two revolvers with silencers and a machine gun. Two of the men were masked; the young man had apparently taken his mask off in order to let him in. Sherlock put up his hands when one of the men signalled him to.

"Magnussen?" Sherlock asked warily.

"You have a good ear, Mr Holmes. So you do remember the voice."

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked.

"You have a brother as well, Mr Holmes. He takes good care of you."

The man pulled the mask away from his face. He didn't look like Carl Augustus Magnussen, but there was a certain similarity.

"Ferdinand Cameron Magnussen," he introduced himself. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Holmes."

He laughed when he saw the look of surprise on Sherlock's face.

"No, you could not have found me in any files. I live incognito, shall we say, and normally do not show my face, even with a mask on it." He laughed at his own joke. "But the affair with my brother did lure me out from underneath my rock, Mr Holmes. That was not very sporting of you at all. You were willing to betray your own brother for your friend. How perverse. Sacrificing brothers seems to run in your family. But please, not for a shabby little army doctor! Dear me, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock didn't respond. He scanned the three individuals, the room. There must be some way of overpowering them, getting away, contacting John. Or Lestrade.

"Do not worry about making any escape plans. You won't have any need for that," Magnussen said calmly. "I would rather like to get my own back, you see. I have a present for you."

He waved his hand at the young man, who took out his mobile phone and entered a number. Sherlock tried to see what it was, but he could only make out part of it: 07755 47x x14. It was a mobile number at any rate. 

"It's time," he said into the phone.

Then he walked over to Sherlock and held the phone out to him. "It's for you, Mr Holmes.

07755 472 214. Sherlock memorised the number. The fact that it didn't bother anyone and that Magnussen had taken off his mask was a bad sign. He held the phone up to his ear.

"Yes?"

"Sherlock?" The telephone was set to loudspeaker mode.

"Mary! Where are you?"

"Take care of John, Sherlock. Myc-"

Mary sounded anxious, and her voice was cut off. A dull sound. Rustling. Gurgling. Excited female voices in the background. Material dragging. Metal.

"Mary!"

Someone screamed: "No!" Then a shot rang out. Screams. More shots. Coming from different directions, different weapons. A bang. The connection cut out abruptly.

"Mary?"

The young man tore the phone out of Sherlock's hand.

" _Take care of John_. What sweet last words," Magnussen mocked. "However, I'm afraid you will not be able to fulfill her final wish. What a shame."

Magnussen gave a signal. Both men went over to Sherlock and forced him to his knees. Mary. Sherlock closed his eyes. What had happened? One of the men yanked Sherlock's head up by the hair while the other one pressed his silencer into Sherlock's forehead. John. John needed him. If Mary was truly dead, then Sherlock couldn't leave him alone. John. He needed to do something. Now! Sherlock threw his arms up with all the strength he could muster, the revolver flew away, the man flinched back. He punched the other one, looking for an escape route out of the corner of his eye. 

Magnussen laughed. He stood there, legs akimbo, the machine gun aimed at Sherlock, enjoying the fight. Sherlock fought hard, tried to get his hands on a weapon. He threw himself onto the young man, who was holding the revolver again, and wrestled him for it. 

A shot went off. A dull 'thunk'. Sherlock felt the burning in his bicep and struck out as hard as he could. Mary. A blind rage. Blood spurted, running over his hands onto the chest of the man lying in front of him. He pounded and pounded, over and over. There was no more resistance. Someone pulled him away, pulled him under the table, tipped the table over.

Screams. Shots. Chaos.

"Sherlock. You're hurt!"

John. John slipped out of his jacket, tore off his shirt and wrapped it around Sherlock's arm, tightening it with all his strength. Sherlock gasped at the pain, clawing his hand into John's shoulder.

"I have to. You're losing blood."

Sherlock nodded miserably and tried to relax. John laid him down with his back to the sideways table top. Their eyes met briefly, and John pushed Sherlock's tangled hair out of his face. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and bit down on his lips. Mary. He struggled against the pain, the fear, the uncertainty. His arm hurt like hell. Everything was full of blood. John. John was here. The mission was over. Lestrade's special unit had the situation under control.

Lestrade peeked behind the table. "We've got them," he said to John. "I'll call an ambulance."

"Sherlock's hurt," said John.

"One of the men here too. Beat up pretty thoroughly. We've arrested one, shot another. And there's a corpse sitting at the desk. Not exactly a great balance at the end of the day."


	5. A Band of Rainclouds

Sherlock let the ambulance bring him to the hospital. The wound on his bicep was more serious than it looked. The shot had gone through the outer periphery of his arm, but it had injured the arteries. It was still bleeding heavily and needed to be seen to by a professional. 

John didn't leave his side. He got into the ambulance with Sherlock and watched attentively as his colleague tended to Sherlock's injury on the way to the hospital. John looked terrible. Tired and sad. Sherlock saw it all, but didn't say anything. He didn't know what he could have said. 

His thoughts were still circling around the telephone call with Mary; he kept replaying it in his head, over and over, focussing on every second, trying to memorise it, to recall every detail. The sounds in the foreground and in the background. In his head, Sherlock examined every layer of what he'd heard while the paramedic put a pressure bandage on his arm and laid a line in the back of his hand. 

There had only been female voices. Several people. Sherlock could remember at least three, in addition to Mary. Three women. The sound of metal in the background. Hasty steps. Someone had been running. A stone floor? There had been a firefight. Unsilenced shots. Echoing. Small calibre. Different weapons, that had been obvious. At least two, possibly three. Around a dozen shots. Someone else must have heard it too. And what about Mary? Was she still alive?

Sherlock hadn't said anything about the call to John. Not yet. Not before Mary was found. He'd told Lestrade, and given him the phone number he'd memorised as well while John had been attending to the other casualties. He'd asked Lestrade to check it out right away. 

Sherlock looked over at John, who was sitting on the small fold-out seat at the foot of the stretcher, lost in thought, far away. He was quiet too. No reproaches. Not a single one. Sherlock closed his eyes. Everything hurt, inside and out. The paramedic had given him an injection for the pain. It was making him sleepy. It didn't do anything for the suffocating pain and tightness in his chest. John. John was so far away. So far away. Sherlock would have rather been close to him. He didn't know what was coming, or when it would come. What was coming for John. For both of them. He wanted to be with John, at his side. Whatever happened. Close to him.

Sherlock felt John's eyes on him, and opened his. Their gazes met. A lingering look. Sadness. Fear. Weariness.

"John."

Sherlock didn't know whether he'd said the name out loud or whispered it, formed it silently with his lips or only thought it.

But John reacted to it. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. A sign that he'd understood. A sign that he was there. The miniscule gesture was enough to fill Sherlock with warmth. John was here. A moment of mutual acknowledgment. Contact. A fleeting moment of happiness.

At the hospital, Sherlock's arm was x-rayed in order to rule out any fractures before the wound was cleaned and stapled. The bleeding stopped. John waited while Sherlock was being treated. He didn't leave him alone. Sherlock was very much aware of that fact. John was only wearing his vest under his jacket. He'd torn up his shirt for Sherlock. John's jacket was full of blood. His -- Sherlock's -- blood.

The call came while Sherlock's arm was being bandaged. On John's mobile phone. John answered it.

"Watson."

He listened for a few seconds. His face drained of colour. His eyes found Sherlock's. The grey in them wide and unsteady. He was breathing fast. He listened absently to his phone, nodded.

"We'll be right there," he said hoarsely.

Sherlock lost his moorings for a moment. He felt dizzy. Mary. The wide-open grey in John's eyes. The wobbling moment of instability between them. A yawning chasm. Fear.

"They found Mary. She's in Wellington Hospital," John said. His voice was shaking.

Sherlock stared at John. Wellington Hospital. She was alive. Hope. There was still hope. They set out right away, as soon as the nurse had taped up the bandage on Sherlock's arm.

A taxi. It was shortly after two a.m. when they arrived at Wellington Hospital. There had been a shoot-out in HMP Holloway. Two dead, two injured, one of the women seriously. Mary. Sherlock's thoughts were whirling. The women's prison. Why had Mary been brought to the women's prison? And who had done it? You couldn't just put someone into prison. There needed to be some connection. To the legal system? Was Sophie in Holloway too?

Sherlock's musings were interrupted when the doctor asked who Mary Watson's husband was, and then refused to give any information with Sherlock present.

"He's with me," John said in a tone of voice that brooked no argument.

 

***

 

Mary only lived a few more hours. John and Sherlock spent them in the waiting area outside the operating theatre where the doctors fought their hardest for Mary's life. A bullet had entered her skull. The doctors were unable to remove it. It had wreaked too much destruction. Mary died during the operation.

Morning was dawning outside when the surgeon emerged from the OP. His weary face spoke volumes. No words were necessary. Sherlock held John firmly by the arm. John was frozen, his breaths shallow. He was ashen.

The prognosis before the operation had been so bad that neither Sherlock nor John expected her to survive. But a beating heart -- along with a tiny ray of hope -- and an empty corpse are worlds apart. Broken worlds. Ends of worlds. The impact of the actual event was a shock. The finality distressing. The consequences unimaginable. A bottomless pit.

"Can I see her?" John asked.

"We'll get her ready and bring her to the viewing room. You'll have time and privacy to say goodbye there," said the surgeon.

Platitudes. Routines. A nurse approached them. Her expression sombre but friendly. Standard procedure. She asked if they needed anything. Water. Tranquilisers. John shook his head.

"Step outside and get some fresh air," she said, her voice kind. "There's a rooftop terrace next to the cafeteria on the top floor. We'll come get you."

"Let's go." Sherlock took John by the arm.

John let himself be pulled along, let himself be pushed into the lift, steered through the cafeteria, through the chatting hospital staff drinking their breakfast coffee, through the tired doctors and nurses having something to eat and drink after a rough night shift, through the aromas of coffee and fresh pastries. John didn't seem to notice any of it. 

Sherlock opened the glass door and pulled John out onto the terrace. Cold, fresh morning air. A new day was breaking over the rooftops of London. A glowing band of light seeped through a dark layer of rainclouds crouched heavily over the horizon. It was wet, but it wasn't raining anymore. Drops clung to the metal railing, making their hands wet where they grasped it. They leaned mutely against the railing with its flower boxes mounted on the front, blocking the view of the ground. There were no words. Not a single one. Nothing that could have been said. 

Sherlock held onto the cold metal, leaned his entire weight against the railing, staring out into the damp morning sky. All of his attention anxiously on John, who stood next to him. He was also resting his entire weight against the railing, pressed up against it, exhausted, numb. His eyes were closed and he was sucking the cold air into his lungs, deep and greedy, before letting it out in a shaky stream. The scent of a new day that cut through the soul like a knife. Pain-infused morning air that stung in the lungs. Light that burnt the eyes. There was no morning. No new day. The night was firmly anchored in the cold walls of the hospital.

Mary looked peaceful. Her facial features completely relaxed. The bandage on her head as white as snow. A plastic clasp around her jaw. Her bloodless hands were placed on top of each other over the sheet. John and Sherlock stood there a long time without speaking, just looking at her. Someone had put a chair next to the bed. John sat down. Sherlock stayed standing next to him. He felt empty. Tired and empty. Mary was dead. Mary. He and she had had a connection. He could feel it now, painfully, now that he'd lost her. Sherlock didn't know if he was crying. His eyes were dry. It was as if all the tears were running down inside him, through him, flowing down the wounded walls of his insides, a river washing everything away. Leaving behind this terrible emptiness. 

Mary was the most extraordinary woman he'd ever met. Simple and boring at first glance. Deep, rich and breathtakingly adventurous on the second. Like John. Like John. It was no coincidence that they had found each other, John and Mary. It was no coincidence that they had found each other: Sherlock and John and Mary. And maybe Sophie. Sophie. Sherlock closed his eyes. He didn't know why the wrinkled little bundle he'd only seen once was causing him pain. Where was Sophie?

John asked to be left alone with Mary for a while, and Sherlock stepped outside to wait. He sat in one of the chairs in the corridor. He felt numb. An orderly came by and asked if he needed anything. She brought him a paper cup with water and checked the bandage on his arm. They'd re-bandaged the wound right at the beginning, when Mary was still in the OP. It had started to bleed again.

 

***

 

"You're coming with me to Baker Street," Sherlock said.

It wasn't a question. He didn't give John any choice. John was sitting in the living room of his flat, staring at nothing, unable to react to anything. He didn't put up a protest. Sherlock went into Mary and John's bedroom. The cot was set up next to their double bed, lovingly prepared for Sophie, who was probably never going to sleep there. Sherlock deleted the thought. 

He opened the cupboard, took out John's duffel bag and set it on the bed. He packed some clothes for John, ones that he knew John liked to wear, jeans, shirts, jumper, sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He added socks, underwear and two sets of pyjamas from the drawer. He knew John's wardrobe and preferences perfectly. The intimacy of that fact made his heart glow briefly. It was something he'd never expected to have in his life. That closeness to another person. 

Sherlock went into the bathroom, gathered up shaving supplies, toothbrush, flannels. He added two pairs of shoes and the slippers in the hall and closed the bag. The laptop was in John's study. Sherlock shut it down, put it into its case along with the mouse and charger.

John was still sitting motionless in the living room. He looked up when Sherlock came over and stood in front of him.

"We can go," Sherlock said.

John didn't react. His gaze was locked on Sherlock's, startled and confused. It was as if he were far away and couldn't manage to decipher the present. Sherlock crouched down in front of him.

"John? We're going to 221B Baker Street together. To our place. Can you come?"

John's eyes searched Sherlock's for a long time, but it wasn't clear whether he knew what was happening.

"I'm not leaving you alone, John. Not this time."

Sherlock's voice was gentle. He felt his heart lurch and expand when John's eyes became alert, found him, immersed themselves in his for several long seconds, touching something deep inside him. Their eyes touched something in each other, releasing warmth.

"Sherlock." John whispered so softly that there was barely anything to hear. 

Sherlock nodded faintly before he carefully placed his hand on John's arm. "Let's go."

 

***

 

Mrs Hudson clapped her hands over her mouth in shock when she saw the pair of them. Sherlock was still wearing his torn, bloody shirt. John looked to be on the verge of collapsing.

"Mary's dead," Sherlock said, disregarding the fact that Mrs Hudson stumbled back against the wall of the staircase when she heard the news. It was necessary for her to know, and now. Sherlock was going to need her. Afterwards, when John was asleep. He needed to go see Lestrade, needed to know what had happened. Needed to find out where Sophie was.

John stood under the shower that Sherlock turned on for him. He drank the tea that Sherlock put in front of him, along with the whiskey with the sleeping aid. He let everything simply happen to him. He lay down in Sherlock's unmade bed without protest when exhaustion overcame him. Sherlock sat next to him until he'd fallen asleep. Then he showered, with difficulty, making sure not to get the bandage wet. His arm hurt. He got dressed in fresh clothes, gave Mrs Hudson the assignment of keeping an eye on John and went to the Yard.

 

***

 

Sherlock raised his hand to ward off the question when Lestrade asked after John. He didn't want to think about it, about John, about Mary, about Sophie. About death, sadness, and pain. He didn't want to deal with any of it. Not now. He wanted to find those who were responsible. He wanted to solve the case.

Lestrade's people had expanded the information board with several new entries. Interpol had discovered that someone had accessed their database and viewed the files on Steffen Boyd and Copernicus-SL3. They had then informed Boyd. Believing his life was in danger, Boyd had sounded an alarm shortly afterwards, reporting that his flat had been broken into. Lestrade, who was home at the time, had been called back in and sent a large contingent to Boyd's flat, following them on his own. John, who had found clues in Mary's papers that evening suggesting she had known Boyd, had set off in a taxi for Boyd's place almost at the same time and arrived there shortly after Lestrade, but before the special unit stormed the flat. Too late. Boyd -- a possible lead to Mary -- was already dead.

"I don't understand," Sherlock said. "Why did he think he was in danger from our accessing the database? I only wanted to talk to him."

"We weren't the only ones who got into Interpol. Someone else hacked into the entire system two days ago, also looking for Boyd and Copernicus. Interpol submitted a request for protection for Boyd based on that, but things started moving too quickly. The request hasn't even been processed yet on our end."

"The Magnussen brother."

Lestrade nodded. "We've got him," he said triumphantly.

"What about Mary?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade frowned. "It's not a very pretty story, unfortunately," he said.

"I'm not here to hear pretty stories," Sherlock replied gruffly, his irritation and tension clear from his tone.

"We've arrested the shooter who killed the two other women, including the one who supposedly killed Mary. Two lethal head shots. Professional. She was lightly wounded, a bullet grazed her cheek but they treated it without taking her to hospital. She says she was protecting Mary. Several witnesses corroborate that. We're still investigating. The woman's name is Rose Granby, a Canadian CSIS agent known as the Spider."


	6. What is Truth?

Sherlock drove to HMP Holloway with Lestrade. The forensics team was still at work. Outlines of bodies were drawn on the washroom floor with black chalk. The police photographer was taking pictures. Sherlock reviewed the scene. Mary and another body had lain all the way in the corner, very close together. The woman -- or maybe several -- must have moved in on Mary, probably forcing her into the corner. One of the women must have been armed, had probably pressed the muzzle of the gun to Mary's temple. The phone call must have taken place here. The third body had been by the door. That was the woman who must have shot Mary, since the shot had come from a distance. Where had Rose been? In her statement, she'd said that she'd shot both of the women who had threatened Mary.

"She was coming out of the shower area, according to her statement." Lestrade pointed at the passage leading to the showers. "That explains why she was late to the party. She needed to gain access to her weapon first. When she arrived, the woman next to Mary shot at her several times without warning, grazing her cheek. Rose shot her down. The shot that hit Mary came from the woman by the door. Rose says she didn't see her right away. She shot her almost at the same time as the woman shot at Mary. The second woman who was standing by Mary got away in the chaos that ensued. She didn't have a weapon, according to Rose, but she might be injured."

"There were witnesses?"

"Yes, a group of women was entering the washroom when Mary was on the phone. They apparently didn't notice at first that Mary was being threatened. Then the shooting started."

"Why was Mary at Holloway?"

"We don't know yet. But we're going to question Rose Granby next. In case you want to be there."

 

***

 

Rose Granby was not the woman who had picked Mary up at the hospital. She was the mastermind in the background. She was older, maybe forty, a highly intelligent and experienced individual with an intimate knowledge of all of the usual methods of interrogation, including torture. This was demonstrably not the first time she'd been in a situation like this, and she knew perfectly well that the CSIS wasn't about to sacrifice her. She didn't so much as react to the officers' questions. She repeated her version of events, remaining pleasant yet obdurate, and provided all the information necessary to close the "Holloway shooting" case as quickly as possible. There was nothing more to get out of her. Rose refused to say anything else without explicit permission from the CSIS. Lestrade had already put everything in motion to get an okay from the Canadian secret service. One of the things he'd done was to contact Mycroft.

Mycroft's call came in when Sherlock was in the office at the Yard. He went out into the corridor to take it.

"Sherlock. The news has reached me that Mary is dead. I am truly sorry to hear it. How is John doing?"

"What do you know about Mary?" Sherlock asked sharply, without responding to Mycroft's expression of sympathy.

"Quite a lot," Mycroft said. "But no one was interested in any of that until now, were they? Neither you nor John."

"That's changed," Sherlock retorted. "I want to know everything."

"All right, very well. But not over the phone. Eight p.m. at my office."

"Fine. And Sophie?"

"Who's Sophie?"

"John's daughter."

"Sophie, oh how quaint! John's daughter. Sophie. So close to Sherlock."

"Where is she? Do you know anythiing?"

"Well. Not directly. But there are things that might interest you."

"Such as?" Sherlock pressed.

"As I said, brother dear: not on the phone. Tonight, eight o'clock."

"No. Now. Where is Sophie?"

"Tonight at eight. That is my final word on the matter. Oh -- and do express my deepest sympathies to John."

Mycroft rang off.

Shortly before noon, instructions arrived from the CSIS that allowed Rose to write up a report illuminating the "circumstances of the Copernicus case". She set to work right away. She emailed the report to Canada first, and the approved version arrived back around three p.m.

_The concept for Copernicus-SL3 originated with the Canadian company McDonald Dettwiler and Associates Ltd. (MDA). It was supposed to be an earth observation satellite, and was commissioned as such by the European Space Agency (ESA). The satellite was to be built at the British facility in Oxfordshire. The Canadian secret service involved itself in the project early in the planning stages. It wanted to equip the satellite inofficially with a unit that would tap European M2M (maching-to-machine) communications. That part of the project was confidential and was headed up by myself and agent A.G.R.A. An informer inside MDA discovered discrepancies and reported them to Steffen Boyd, who was responsible for communication security at Interpol. Boyd initiated an investigation on behalf of the British government._

_During the final production stage of the satellite in Oxfordshire, agent A.G.R.A. discovered that the technical director was being pressured by a third party to install an additional unauthorised module that would forward data on accessing public buildings. The necessary software was delivered to him ready to go. I assigned agent E.F.K. to the technical director. He found out that the instructions came from Prof. James Moriarty. He also found out that Interpol was conducting an undercover investigation of the CSIS. In order to replace the Interpol agent whose cover had been blown, the British government smuggled an agent from the Government Communications Headquarters (GCHQ) into the project. The man was found out and neutralised by agent A.G.R.A. Since she was now in danger, I removed her from the project and sent her underground._

_The satellite was launched into orbit ahead of schedule. Since it has been providing all of the required data according to plan, it has been left alone until now. We know that the module implemented by Prof. Moriarty is also functional. The corresponding data has been transmitted. At the present time, we don't have a complete knowledge of what the satellite has been programmed to do. The IT consultant who created the documentation died under suspicious circumstances and the documentation has disappeared or was never produced._

_The events in the women's prison HMP Holloway can be traced back to the alarm sequence going off that was installed in the satellite by Prof. Moriarty. As we had to assume that the satellite had the ability to cause widespread destruction, we charged MDA with deactivating it and bringing it down, which has thus far been unsuccessful._

Sherlock tossed the report onto the table.

"Useless!" he said, annoyed. "That's all in the Interpol report already. That's not what we need to know. Lestrade, why did she have Mary taken to Holloway?"

"She says she wanted to protect her agent. She apparently didn't count on Copernicus cropping up again after it had been buried, and saw it as a threat for everyone who had been involved. Which turned out to be true. Boyd is dead, as is Mary. The Canadians wanted to shoot down the spy satellite on the down low, but someone seems to be preventing that."

"Why did she have Mary taken to Holloway?" Sherlock repeated his question. He was furious. "And where is the child, for Christ's sake!"

Sherlock paced back and forth a few paces, fuming. Then he stopped in his tracks.

"Who are the two dead women?" he asked.

Lestrade looked for the autopsy reports on his desk, picked them up and leafed through them.

"Both have criminal records," he said. "Elisabeth Cardigan, incarcerated at Holloway for the past four years. Sentenced for coercion and manslaughter, along with violation of the controlled substances act. And Maggie Sun Lee, in Holloway for the past two years, various burglaries, robbery with use of force and incidental death."

"They were working with Magnussen. There must be a liaison inside the prison."

"I know. We're still working in the dark. We don't even have the woman who was present at the scene and disappeared."

"You can't just disappear in a prison!"

"Oh yes you can," said Lestrade. "For example if you're on the staff."

Sherlock stared at him. "Very good!" he said approvingly and held up his index finger. "Can I talk to Rose Granby?"

Lestrade shook his head. "She's under CSIS's protection. We can't question her any more."

"I don't want to question her. I want to talk to her. Is she still here?"

"Investigative custody. She did shoot two people."

"Let me talk to her, Inspector. You only stand to gain. Five minutes."

 

***

 

Rose Granby was relaxed where she sat on the hard chair in the visiting room. She was a small, wiry, unobtrusive woman. Her short, reddish-brown hair cut in a boringly traditional style. Jeans, a blouse, cardigan. Only her mental presence and her self-confident serenity betrayed the fact that there was more to her than middle-class uniformity. Her voice was clear and surprisingly soft and relaxed.

"Ava was my best agent," she said. "We worked together for years."

"Including the years when she was Mary?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. Even though that may be difficult for you to hear. However, it wasn't part of the plan that she would fall in love, get married, and become a mother."

"So you dropped her."

"No. I wanted to protect her and failed. Ava was my friend. As much as the job allows any kind of emotional attachment."

A brief flicker of emotion flared up in Rose's doe-brown eyes. Just for a fraction of a second before the steel returned to them.

"Did you have contact with her the entire time?" Sherlock asked, knowing already that he was afraid of the answer.

Rose said simply, "Yes."

"Mary offered John a memory stick with the truth about her past," Sherlock interjected, and even as he said it he realised he was trying to justify Mary's actions. He didn't want to believe that she had been pulling the wool over John's eyes the whole time.

Rose attempted a smile, but it was fleeting. The thick bandage on her cheek didn't move. The wound seemed to be painful.

"Mr Holmes, in Mary's and my job, there is no truth."

Sherlock had expected something along those lines, but the significance of that statement hit him hard. He'd never doubted, not even for a moment, that the memory stick would contain the correct information about Mary's past. How naive! He wouldn't be able to tell John, could never tell him. It would break his heart.

Rose's alert, doe-brown eyes observed him closely.

"Mr Holmes," she said lightly, "it doesn't make any sense for you to concentrate on these painful details. They're in the past. Help us find those who are controlling the satellite and preventing us from bringing it back to earth."

"Magnussen?"

"Ferdinand Cameron Magnussen is just a sideshow."

"How is he entangled in Copernicus?"

"If you decide to work with us, I'll give you the necessary information, Mr Holmes."

"If I take sides with the Canadian secret service, I'd be working against my own country. I don't think I need to explain that to you. My brother is a member of the government."

"I know. We're working together with Mycroft Holmes, at least on this particular issue. Talk to your brother, Mr Holmes. Then make your decision."

"Where is Mary's child?"

"I don't know."

"You kidnap your friend out of the maternity ward and just leave her baby lying there?"

"Mr Holmes. It was one of my colleagues who escorted Mary to safety. She gave you a tip with her temporary spider tattoo, by the way. But you didn't understand it. And no: of course we didn't just leave Ava's baby lying there. But it wasn't my job to secure her. I can't say anything more. Talk to your brother, Mr Holmes, and we'll get back in touch."

 

***

 

Mycroft. Myc... _Take care of John, Sherlock. Myc..._ Mary's voice had been cut off. Sherlock had interpreted the broken off, half swallowed _'Myc'_ as an expression of surprise or pain. Was it the first part of Mycroft? Had Mary also sent him to his brother?

Eight p.m. The rear entrance to Mycroft's office was locked. Damn it! Sherlock called Mycroft's number. Voice mail. Blah blah blah. Sherlock spoke: "We have an appointment at eight. Where should I go? Call me back."

Sherlock walked around the building to the official entrance. The night watchman greeted him. "Your brother's already left the building, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock drove to the Diogenes Club. Mycroft wasn't there. No one had seen him that evening. Sherlock drove to Mycroft's flat. Everything was dark. He rang the buzzer. No response. He called Mycroft's land line. Voice mail.

"Where are you, Mycroft? We had an appointment. Report in!"

Nothing. Sherlock waited, rang the buzzer long and insistently. Nothing. Sherlock drove back to the office. They were supposed to meet there. It was almost ten at night. The night watchman opened the door and let Sherlock into the building. The light was on in Mycroft's office. It was the cleaning woman, who was so surprised she dropped the vacuum cleaner. Mycroft's office looked just as it always did. Nothing suspicious. Everything tidied away, the computer shut down. Coat, scarf and umbrella were gone. Had Mycroft forgot him? Where was he?

Sherlock called the mobile number again. Voice mail.

"Mycroft! Damn it, where are you? I'm waiting for you."

When Mycroft went out, he went to the Diogenes. Sherlock went over there again. A couple of older gentlemen, but no sign of Mycroft. Damn it! Sherlock left the club, leaned against the classical stone portal, at a loss as to what to do, pressing the palms of his hands against the cold marble behind his back and closed his eyes. 

The wound on his arm hurt like hell. He was tired. Incredibly tired. His whole body hurt. Where was Mycroft? Where was Sophie? What did his brother have to do with the child? Why had he disappeared? That was unusual. Mycroft was a git but he was reliable and kept his appointments down to the last second. What had happened? Sherlock's head was spinning. He wanted to think, but he was no longer capable of precision thinking, couldn't put the facts together. The pain in his arm made it impossible to concentrate. He hadn't eaten anything all day. When was the last time he'd slept? John. He'd left him alone all day, hadn't even checked in with him. He needed to go to John. He needed to go home. He needed to sleep.

It was almost midnight by the time Sherlock dragged himself up the stairs of 221B Baker Street. The door to the flat wasn't locked. He went directly into his bedroom and glanced inside. John was lying in his bed asleep. Good. John was here. One less worry. Sherlock went into the living room. He didn't turn on the light. He collapsed into his chair and buried his face in his hands. They were shaking. He was exhausted. He hadn't slept or eaten in almost forty hours. The pain in his arm was driving him mad. What did the Canadian secret service want from him? Was Sophie still alive? His grief for Mary burned inside him. It was torture, knowing what he did about her. He was scared for John. John was so distant. He could have used him. He needed him. He couldn't do it all alone anymore. But at least John was here, at least he was sleeping. Good. That was good. 

Sherlock took a deep breath, in and out. Each and every fibre of his overworked body hurt. His heart was raw. Grit scratched in his eyes. Something had a chokehold on his throat. Loneliness. Emptiness. Bottomless exhaustion. Sherlock tried to relax. He had no strength left. Everything was off kilter. He had nothing to hold on to. He felt lost, alone, overwhelmed. Sherlock took the relief that offered itself: he cried. A hot, salty stream in his hands. He was shaken with misery and weakness. He tried to breathe calmly in between sobs. Waited until it passed.

And it did pass. Eventually, he gathered himself up and went into the bathroom, took some of the painkillers they'd given him at the hospital, and drank some water. There was a note from Mrs Hudson on the kitchen table:

_John got up in the afternoon and went back to bed around 10. He took the sleeping pill on his own. I've set up the upstairs room._

Sherlock went into his bedroom but didn't turn the light on. The ambient light from the street that seeped into the room between the thick blackout curtains was enough to orient himself by. John lay curled up on the right-hand edge of the bed. He appeared to be sound asleep. Sherlock sat down on the left side. John had made room. Sherlock didn't know whether it was intentional or not. He'd wanted to sleep on the couch in the living room, but he gratefully stretched out on the free side of the bed. The painkillers started to kick in, the burning pain in his arm became duller, faded slowly into the background.

He must have fallen asleep. It was still dark when he woke up. He was still lying on his back. His arm was numb, the pain in it diffuse. John was breathing beside him, had turned toward him in his sleep. His sleep was restless now, his breathing laboured. He sighed, probably dreaming. So close to Sherlock's ear. A warm stream of air. Sherlock listened to John breathing for a while. He could feel the heat from the body next to him, inhaled its fragrance. He could have moved away. He would probably have turned onto his side if his arm had allowed it. But he couldn't, he couldn't lie on his injured arm. He could have got up and gone into the living room. But he was too tired for that. And he didn't want to. He wanted to be with John. Not because John needed it. HE needed it. Being close to John lessened the pain and made the ruinous chaos in him bearable.

The next time Sherlock woke up, it was light outside. The space in the bed next to him was empty. John had got up. Sherlock found him in the kitchen. He'd made tea. He looked pale and puffy. Sherlock knew he didn't look any better. It didn't matter between them. They'd been through too much together to pay attention to things like that.

"Tea?"

"Please."

John poured milk into Sherlock's tea. No need to ask. The right amount. Old habit. They drank silently. Sherlock took some painkillers. John checked Sherlock's arm and said the bandage would need to be changed after breakfast. 

John toasted two slices of bread, set the glass with the orange marmelade on the table. Shades of a normal day. A perfectly natural, normal day with years of practise behind it. Sherlock's heart clenched as he realised how much he'd missed this.

"I'll have to take care of the formalities today," said John.

Sherlock nodded.

"Is there any sign of Sophie?"

Sherlock shook his head. Then he said -- and he tried to sound firm and forceful -- "We're going to find her. I'm going everything I can."

"Thank you, Sherlock," John said dully.

"I'm going to work on it again today. Is that all right with you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course. I don't know how to thank you, Sherlock. It's good you're here. Thanks."

John's honest grey eyes. Sherlock swallowed and nodded.

"John," he said carefully, "in order to keep working, I need some information from you."

"Yeah, sure. What do you need to know?"

"Where did you get the information that Mary had contact to Interpol, that she knew Steffen Boyd?"

John set down his teacup. He took a deep breath and ran both hands over his face. It took a few seconds, then he said, "You wanted me to put together a list with all of her contacts."

"Yes."

Sherlock examined John carefully. He didn't want to upset or hurt him. But it was absolutely essential that they work together now. That they pool their information.

"Mary had a sealed envelope in amongst her papers that I was supposed to open if anything happened to her. She said there were the addresses of some people in there who should be informed if she died."

"You opened it."

John met Sherlock's gaze and swallowed hard. He didn't say anything. Mary had still been alive at the time. He'd opened the envelope anyway. That was a breach of faith. Sherlock realised it immediately.

"Were there any other clues in the envelope?" he asked.

John nodded. "It's at the flat. I have to go back there to get her papers anyway. I'll bring it back with me."

"Let's go together, John."

"Okay. Thank you, Sherlock."


	7. Sophie

The funeral was an exercise in survival. Sherlock stayed close by John's side, holding him firmly by the arm as they stood by the open grave. It was a cold, wet day. Mrs Hudson had come, Lestrade and his people, Molly and some others John and Mary knew, some of John's patients and friends. Even Mycroft was there. Rose Granby stayed in the background. She had been given leave from her detention for the funeral.

John wanted some privacy after the official portion of the service, so Sherlock drove back to Baker Street with him, where they'd spent the past few days. They sat in their chairs in the living room, both adrift. Sherlock had poured them each a glass of whiskey. They sat there silently, lost in their own thoughts.

At some point, Sherlock got up – it was already getting dark – to put another log on the fire. Mrs Hudson had lit it, thinking they could use the comforting warmth, especially now. Sherlock added more wood, and on his way back to his chair he stopped in front of John, reflective, and spoke into the prolonged, distracted silence: "Come back to me at Baker Street, John."

John looked up. "I'm here," he said softly.

"Officially."

"What about Sophie?" John asked uncertainly.

"We have the room upstairs. We'll figure something out."

John looked up at Sherlock. He was in no condition to make a decision right now. Sherlock saw that in his grey eyes. There was the child to think of too. The facts were still too new, the grief for Mary too present. An overload of undigested emotions.

"You don't need to decide right away," Sherlock said. "We have time."

"I don't want to go back to the other flat," John answered. "There are too many memories there. Too many difficult issues. It was all... too short."

"You can stay here as long as you want." A hint of a smile on Sherlock's face. "Inofficially, if you like. You know that."

They looked at each other without speaking. John had been living here over the past few days, just like before. The only difference was the fact that he'd been sleeping in Sherlock's bed. He'd simply done it, and Sherlock had simply accepted it. A silent agreement. They hadn't spoken a word about it. The bed was big enough for two. But now there was Sophie.

Sophie was alive. And she was safe. Mycroft had made sure of it, together with Rose. Neither John nor Sherlock knew where she was. It was part of the security concept that as few people as possible knew.

Mycroft had contacted Sherlock the day after he'd disappeared. He'd come to Baker Street to tell him: Sophie was alive. He'd made sure of it himself the night before, which was why he hadn't been able to meet or even contact Sherlock, otherwise he would have given away his location, apologies. Sherlock had had a fit. Luckily, John had been out making arrangements for Mary's funeral. Sherlock didn't know how he would have reacted to the news. Sophie was safe. Mycroft had known it the whole time but kept silent. It was one of those times when Sherlock wished his brother would go to hell, wanted to curse his arrogance and his bloody ignorance. At the same time, though, he was grateful that Mycroft had inserted himself, had taken care of Sophie and solved the problem.

John had come home later. He'd listened in, pale and with clenched fists. He wanted to have his daughter back. Immediately. 

_'She's MY daughter! You bloody Holmeses stick your noses into my life however you please! I'm not putting up with these games anymore! I want Sophie back and I want to be left in peace. I want to live my life for once, Sherlock. My own life!'_

A barrage of reproaches. Sherlock had tried to calm him down, talked to him. Sherlock had negotiated with Mycroft and Rose. He'd agreed to work with the CSIS and signed the NDA. He'd convinced John it was better to leave Sophie where she was, in safety, until the Copernicus case was closed, until they knew what the masterminds' intentions were. And after a hard-fought debate with Mycroft and Rose, Sherlock had managed to get permission for John to see his child.

They'd taken a taxi to a rendezvous point, where they'd been picked up by Mycroft's limousine. There, they'd been blindfolded. They'd driven for a long time, somewhere outside of London. Sherlock had tried to memorise the direction, but they'd taken detours and gone in circles, and he'd eventually given up. After more than an hour, they'd ended up in an underground car park, where they'd taken a lift upstairs, still blindfolded. Corridors. The smells of paper, cleaning supplies, millet, and apples. The cries of children. A brief stop. Mycroft's voice whispering, a woman's voice whispering back. Then a room. The door was closed behind them. It smelled of milk and vanilla, with an unfamiliar, sweet scent mixed in. Birds were chirping somewhere. Mycroft took their masks off.

Sherlock remembered the scene in perfect detail, would never forget it. Never. It was a cheerful nursery. Tall ceilings, white stucco, maybe turn of the century. Hardwood floors, waxed. Daylight streamed in through a large window. Outside were mature trees, a park, lively birdsong. A mighty weeping fig tree stood by the window in the corner, lending a peaceful air to the room. Four old-fashioned wooden slat cots stood along the wall, labelled with small, hand-painted wooden plaques. The one over the second bed said 'Sophie', and someone had added a blue painted butterfly. The woman who had come with them – she was wearing a nun's habit – smiled as she went to the bed, turned back the snowy white blanket and lifted Sophie out. She was bundled up in a simple, pink-flowered romper and grimaced when she was disturbed from her sleep.

John staggered and grabbed onto Sherlock. He didn't approach the child, instead covering his eyes with one hand while the other dug into Sherlock's coat. Then he turned, turned toward Sherlock and sagged against him. Sherlock wrapped his good arm around John and held him tight. John cried on his shoulder, overwhelmed by emotions, by relief, by sentiment, perhaps by grief, by fear. John cried on his shoulder and Sherlock held him tight, held him tucked in close, a tender, comforting embrace. Sherlock blinked away his own tears, flooded with warmth. He stroked John's back, explicitly, unashamed, and pressed his face into John's hair in an uninhibited moment, meeting Mycroft's gaze a moment later. 

He would never forget that look. Never. Mycroft's cool eyes on him, on their embrace, on Sherlock's eyes, which doubtless revealed the full extent of his emotions. The brief flicker in Mycroft's gaze. Alienation, disbelief, consternation, before he turned away with a disparaging twitch around his mouth. Sherlock only pulled John closer and closed his eyes, waiting until John was ready. The nun stood in front of them with Sophie, smiling, and waited too.

Later on, John held his daugher in his arms for a while before handing her back to the woman.

"We care for orphans and half-orphans as long as they need it," the nun explained. "Sometimes until they've completed their schooling or even longer." She smiled as she laid Sophie peacefully back in her cot.

"It's the best institution for infant care around," Mycroft spoke up, clearly uncomfortable. "Sophie is truly in the best of hands here."

The nun covered Sophie up again and returned to the three men. She stood before them, upright and direct, looking John in the eye as she spoke: "Your daughter is safe with us and in expert care. Our convent gives us the time, the space, and the peace to love each and every child."

The corner of Mycroft's mouth twitched. John's fingers dug into the wool of Sherlock's coat. He'd reached for Sherlock automatically where he stood close beside John, had found his sleeve and latched onto it.

"The ways of the Lord are mysterious and inscrutable," the nun said mildly, her gaze still locked on John's. "It is not for us to judge. It is HIS will that will be done."

Sherlock searched the woman's incredibly lucid eyes, the deep serenity, the smile they contained. She and John were watching each other, a message Sherlock wasn't included in, one he couldn't comprehend. John's fingers still firmly ensconced in the material of his sleeve.

"Thank you," John said quietly.

The woman nodded. "You can find your own way out?" she said, assertive now, a clear signal that it was time for them to leave.

They'd driven back without speaking, blindfolds, detours. They'd changed to a taxi in front of Mycroft's office and gone back to Baker Street.

"I'll have to figure something out for Sophie," John had said, preoccupied, as they'd sat together in the living room some time later.

Sherlock hadn't responded to that, or asked any questions. It had hurt. The _'I'_ had hurt. Sherlock had expected a _'we'_.

 

***

 

The interviews with Ferdinand Cameron Magnussen didn't provide much information, or better, none. The Magnussen brother turned out to be brilliant but psychologically unstable and exhibited behaviours that tended to indicate a pathological disorder. He raged, screamed, laughed, mocked, and insulted the officers. He spat at Sherlock when he participated in the interrogation. It was impossible to get anything out of him. The only information they had on him came from Rose, and she only shared it with Sherlock, who had signed the nondisclosure agreement. The Canadian secret service decided what information to share with whom. Not Sherlock. He had agreed to it. He'd taken everything John had, including Mary's will. But he couldn't share anything with him.

Sherlock tried to explain the situation to John: "I signed a paper, John. It makes me beholden to the CSIS for the time being. It's just for this one case. I can't pass anything on to you without authorisation."

"I see," John said bitterly. "You don't want my help."

"On the contrary," Sherlock said. "I need you."

"And how did you imagine that would go? If you need an assistant, ask Lestrade for one. They're professionals."

"John. There are several parties involved who don't normally work together. That makes things complicated and requires certain guidelines. That's why things are a little different than usual this time."

John fell silent for a long time. He was standing in the door to the kitchen with his teacup, leaning on the door frame and staring at the cup in his hand. He took a deep breath and then spoke, sadness and resignation in his voice. 

" _Everything_ is different, Sherlock."

His tone of voice, the decisiveness shining through in the background, alarmed Sherlock.

"I'm giving up my practise," John continued. "It doesn't make sense any more without Mary. A colleague is taking over. I'll work at Bart's again. There's a creche there for the children of employees. I need to be around for Sophie. I've thought about getting a little flat near Bart's."

Sherlock stared at John, then looked away from his friend, stunned. It was like being kicked in the gut. Unexpected. Painful. He felt sick. He tried to breathe. No. No. Sherlock shook his head.

"No," he said and got up from his chair, walked over to John.

"Are you going to forbid me?" John asked tiredly, with an undertone of aggression and disappointment.

Sherlock stopped in the doorway. John looked exhausted. Sad and weary. He was breathing heavily. He was upset. Sherlock was too. Something was going wrong, something between them. Sherlock searched John's grey eyes. Grief and fear made his throat tighten. He lowered his eyes, closed them for several moments. 

Then he spoke – dizzy with the fact that he was permitting it: "Don't leave me, John." His voice wavered. His legs felt weak and it took everything he had to allow those emotions. He leaned back against the other side of the door frame.

"I don't want to leave you, Sherlock," John said. Quiet, surprised, deeply touched.

"Then stay with me. In every respect."

They stood across from each other in the kitchen doorway, their eyes locked on each other. Both unsettled. A shudder ran through Sherlock's body. He was shaking. Why was it so hard, so hard to communicate on this level?

"So much chaos and confusion," John said, his voice dull and flat. "I can't get a handle on my life anymore."

"Then don't make any decisions now, John. Please. Let's figure something out together."

John's gaze, lingering. Deep and penetrating. Sherlock's pulse was racing. Heat rose from his groin and spread throughout his body. He longed to put his arms around John. But he didn't. He closed his eyes, removed himself from the situation. John's hand on his good arm. Warm and gentle.

"Thank you, Sherlock," John said, pensive, his voice tender.

John's fingers brushed Sherlock's as he let go of his arm. Sherlock resisted the impulse to hold onto them, hesitating just a moment too long. John turned away, hesitant as well, and went into the living room.

 

***

 

The weeks following Mary's funeral were marked by the search for whoever was preventing the satellite from being decommissioned, and for what led to Mary's and Steffen Boyd's deaths. The circle of people involved in the investigation was strictly limited as it concerned information that the public wasn't privy to. The Canadian and British intelligence agencies – the latter under Mycroft's control – had established the conditions during fierce negotiations. Rose and Sherlock were in charge of the investigation, together with Lestrade, who had also signed a non-disclosure agreement. Interpol was involved but could only be called in conditionally.

Sherlock worked until he was about to drop. He was out with Rose almost all the time, even flying to Canada, investigating and gathering information that he found highly troublesome. It wasn't just the case that was getting to him, pushing him to the limits of his abilities. Much more than that, it was John. John and his own private situation. Sherlock saw the importance of being with John and maintaining their closeness, but he couldn't involve him in his work. He would have liked to talk to him about Mary as he found out more and more about her. An image of a woman he hadn't known, yet who had been so close. Who had been John's wife and Sophie's mother. If anyone had the right to know everything, it was John, not him.

John was there, and he was staying. He'd re-opened his practise and taken on as many patients as he could. Sherlock watched with concern the way he buried himself more and more in his work. Just as Sherlock was kept busy with the case, John was kept busy with his patients. Sometimes their paths crossed at Baker Street. John had retrieved some of his things and set himself up again in the upstairs bedroom, although he still slept in Sherlock's bed from time to time. 

Sometimes when Sherlock came home exhausted and lay down to sleep while John was at the office, the bed smelled of him and Sherlock slept deeply and peacefully. Some nights, when Sherlock was home, John slipped in with him. Sherlock couldn't figure out what was happening. It was a strange ritual of intimacy, perhaps an alternative to what they didn't – and couldn't – share. It confused and astonished Sherlock how important that detail had become between them, even as it remained unspoken. A seismograph of their relationship. An unsuspected source of happiness and contentment. Because John was there, and he was staying. In every respect.


	8. Common Ground

The three of them sat there, staring at the wall of information. Lestrade, Rose, Sherlock. Sitting in the spacious office the CSIS had rented for them. City limits, new commercial centre with office space. Most of it still empty. It smelled of paint and solvent. The room was equipped with everything they needed. One wall full of taped-up notes and pictures, a gigantic mind map of the crime.

They'd looked at everyone surrounding the events, whether close to the epicentre or on the periphery. A puzzle with hundreds of individual pieces they used to put together pictures, coherent within themselves but mostly useless as they had no relation to Copernicus. Except for one. A construct whose parts meshed with each other and whose loose ends linked into Copernicus like one molecule into another. Seamless. They'd spent hours – days – checking everyone out. They'd gathered and assembled the results, discussed, verified, and discarded. They'd eliminated everything that was impossible. Whatever remained must be the truth, no matter how improbable it was. And it was. 

The director of the women's prison HMP Holloway was the widow of the IT consultant who had configured Copernicus and died in suspicious circumstances before he'd been able to put together the technical documentation. Was she the mysterious third woman who'd threatened Mary then disappeared?

"The witnesses would have recognised her," said Lestrade. "They all said they'd never seen her before."

"That is strange, isn't it," Sherlock replied, "that a woman should pop up in a women's prison whom none of the others had ever seen before. A prison is a closed system."

Sherlock glanced over at Rose, who was looking pensive as she sat on one of the desks. Their eyes met. Sherlock knew she was able to follow his line of thinking, and draw the right conclusions. If what he suspected was true, she'd led Mary right into the lion's den rather than protecting her.

"There's no better alibi," said Rose, "than not being recognised in an environment in which everyone knows you. Different clothes, a wig, change your voice or don't speak at all. That would be enough. Plus they were all under a great deal of stress."

"She married her husband's twin brother a year after her husband's death," Lestrade said. "We checked it out. The IT expert, Paul Wilmer, had a twin brother named Peter. He lived in Australia and spent his summer holidays one year in Oxfordshire with his brother and the brother's wife. Paul died during the holiday and Peter stayed on in Europe, marrying his sister-in-law sometime later."

"Do the brothers look alike?" Sherlock asked.

"Like two peas in a pod."

"Let's exhume Paul Wilmer. I'm almost positive the wrong Wilmer was buried."

"Cremated."

"Then we need to find some other way to get his DNA. Paul Wilmer has all of the missing know-how on Copernicus. And he's the only one who does. Unless someone else got the documentation from him. His wife. Or his brother."

"If the prison director, Verena Wilmer, is the one behind it all, then the manipulation of the satellite could be taking place from Holloway. She has access to scads of brain power and criminal energy. And there's no more secure place than a closed system," said Rose.

"Famous mistakes," Sherlock remarked bitterly.

"As long as you have the system under your control," Rose added, "and she does, as far as we know." Her expression was pale and brittle, but her voice remained calm. She was still a professional.

"We could sneak someone in to look over the director's shoulder and try to find the server," Lestrade suggested.

"How?" asked Rose. "An inmate doesn't do us any good if her range of motion is limited. Staff would take too long. Application processes, building up trust..."

"A doctor," Sherlock said.

"HMP Holloway has a doctor."

"We could order a house search," Lestrade suggested.

"No. We'd just scare her into hiding. Are you thinking of John?" Rose asked, turning to Sherlock.

"Yes. We'll put their doctor out of commission for a few days. John can replace her."

John. It was a way to include John, to reduce the distance between them. It was a way to work with him again. And John was just the right man for the job. Sherlock missed working with him, the back-and-forth, the ease with which they understood each other. He missed John. Even here, while he was on a case. Sherlock was shocked by how much he missed him. Their progress on the case was difficult and slow. It was starting to get on his nerves. Rose, Lestrade, and himself: they weren't a team that was destined for success. He needed John.

Rose's eyes were on Sherlock. Probing.

"You and John, you work well together," she said. "All the cases you've solved together are proof of that. But this time, Sherlock, John has an emotional investment."

"So do I," Sherlock countered, visibly angered. "As do you. You had Sophie taken away as a preventive measure because you were afraid for her."

"That's correct," Rose said. "The child makes us susceptible to blackmail. You and me both. Or am I wrong about that?" An undercurrent of provocation in her voice.

"I'll ask John about the mission. Give me until tomorrow," Sherlock said evasively. "Something else..." He tapped his index finger on the name 'Magnussen' where it hung on the wall. "What do the Magnussen brothers have to do with all this, and what precisely was triggered by the video message?" 

"Charles Augustus Magnussen managed confidential data for innumerable companies, individuals, and agencies. He was paid well for it and enjoyed excellent protection. We assume some control mechanism set off the alarm. Magnussen received an automated query interface at irregular intervals, always from a different server. He then needed to enter a password within a certain timeframe. We found certain indicators on his laptop. When he failed to send the password, the alarm was triggered with his clients. One of which was the British government, by the way. I assume most of his clients had backup copies of their most sensitive data and activated their plan B based on the alarm in order to secure them elsewhere."

"The backup of the Copernicus data is the documentation that either went missing or that Paul Wilmer never created," said Sherlock. "The associated clients are the CSIS and MDA, so they should have had access to it. But someone else grabbed it. Verena and Paul Wilmer. Why? What do they want with the satellite?"

"Moriarty's access codes," said Rose. "It's a very lucrative business. Ferdinand Cameron Magnussen is the decoding software, in a manner of speaking. He may be mentally deficient in some areas, but he has a special gift for recognising complex patterns. I assume he could break the codes in a very short time. That's what he was doing for his brother, and before him for Moriarty. Now he wants to sell the data himself. Only Verena and Paul Wilmer have the same idea and they control the satellite, and therefore the data source."

"They're working together," said Lestrade.

"Out of necessity," Rose pointed out. "Without Ferdinand Magnussen decoding it for them, the data are worthless. And without the data, there's nothing for Magnussen to decode."

"But what does the CSIS want with it?" Lestrade asked.

"To put an end to it. To everything. To destroy the satellite."

"To get rid of the proof of their failure. That's what their game is. Even if it means people have to die," Sherlock said, bitterness and resentment in his voice.

Rose looked over at him. Her lips were a thin, hard line as she spoke, her voice cool and sharp: "You're the one who shot Magnussen, Sherlock. If you hadn't done that, Copernicus would never have come to light."

 

***

 

Sherlock stared out into the early London night. His taxi was stuck in the evening rush hour traffic. Rose's reproach niggled at him. He'd shot Magnussen and set off the entire cascade of events. Copernicus had been washed to the surface, and with it Mary's past. He'd achieved precisely the opposite of what he'd intended. He'd failed. Along the whole line. He hurt, stung deep inside. He'd acted according to the best of his knowledge and conscience. He'd only had a few seconds. No more. 

John. John, who'd allowed Magnussen to torment him, to flick him in the face. To humiliate him. Right before his eyes. His growing determination to put an end to the game. The realisation that he was going to need to kill Magnussen to erase Mary's past. To set John free. To release John from that dangerous past, to protect his young family. To pave the way for John's future. A future with Mary and the baby. To make him happy. No matter the price. He'd set everything on a single card. And lost it all. He'd been ready to pay any price. Including his life. Any price but this one. Not Mary, not Sophie. Not John's happiness. 

Sherlock closed his eyes. The taxi lumbered through the slow-moving traffic. Thousands of vehicles out there, thousands of people with their worries, their happy moments, their families and friends. So many people. And in his life there was only one who filled that central, pulsating space, on whom his existence was oriented like a magnetic needle on the north pole. Even now when everything was falling apart, trickling away between his fingers, shattering into separate pieces he could no longer hold on to. Or maybe especially now. John. 

Sherlock needed to talk to him, break through this silent grief. They needed to find their way back to each other. Find their way to each other through all the shards. If that was even still possible. Maybe he could convince John to work with him again. He needed to try. The way they were living now was unbearable. Amidst this all-consuming disorientation, fixated on work, each for himself. Parallel to each other.

John was asleep on the couch when Sherlock got home. He lay there with his knees bent up, his head on the arm of the couch, on top of a pillow with his hand shoved underneath it. He lay with his face toward the television, which was on. Sherlock turned it off. John's breaths were regular and deep. He was pale, but his face was relaxed in a way Sherlock hadn't seen in a long time.

Sherlock stood in front of the couch. Fascinated. This wasn't the first time he'd seen John sleeping. John sometimes slept next to him in his bed, and he could feel his body heat and hear him breathing. But this was different. John was lying in the living room, asleep on the couch in their shared living room. Completely exposed. In Sherlock's flat. In their shared flat. Perhaps the only place John could sleep like this. Unafraid. Comfortable. It touched Sherlock unexpectedly deeply to see his friend lying there like that, in trusting abandon like a child. It took an effort for Sherlock to withstand the inner urge to touch John, to caress him, to join him, to affirm that trust. _Yes, you are safe here, John. Sleep. I'm here with you._ Sherlock let himself drop into his armchair, covered his face with his hands. What strange, heretofore hidden impulses this man released in him!

 

***

 

"Stop, Sherlock! Stop!"

John raised his hands in alarm. Sherlock fell silent, confused. John shook his head. 

"I don't want to know everything about Mary. Are you listening? Please, Sherlock. Yes, yes I'll work on the case with you. You can send me to Holloway as a temporary replacement, that's all fine. But please, please don't bombard me with information about Mary. Please, Sherlock. I burned the stick because the past is..." John stuggled to hold back tears. 

Sherlock waited patiently. Then he said introspectively, "You can't erase the past, John. I've tried and it didn't work. It's part of the present."

"Mary was what she was. Including her past," John responded. "I wanted to start fresh, you know? I didn't want to know all those old things, I wanted to love her the way she was. What I knew of her was enough to love her and enough to marry her. It was more than enough. Do you understand?"

"You were living on the edge of a cliff without looking down, without knowing what was there," Sherlock said lightly.

"I live on the same edge with you, Sherlock. And I love you anyway."

Sherlock was stunned at the turn the conversation was taking. He needed a few seconds to process what he'd heard, to collect himself. 

Then he said softly, "You know my family. My parents, my brother. We work together, John. We've lived together. No one else in the world knows me better than you. We live on the edge, yes, but we both look down into it and know what's there."

Their eyes met. What a thing to talk about! Sherlock felt a warmth inside, but also the stirrings of panic. They were talking about them. About their relationship. 

"I know I don't talk about myself very much, and especially not without being asked," Sherlock went on. "But if there's anything you want to know about me, John then ask. I'll be honest with you."

"Our cliff isn't your past, Sherlock," John said quietly. "It's our present. And neither of us is looking down there, you know that."

Sherlock looked away from the depths of those grey eyes in confusion and closed his own. His pulse was throbbing hard and fast. It was new, so new for them to talk to each other like this. Sherlock was scared, but he didn't sidestep, didn't want to sidestep it. Their present. Nothing was settled between them, nothing at all. Now the time had come which he'd feared for so long. John was right. They needed to face it. Both of them. They needed to communicate. He needed to tell John what he wanted, how things looked from his end, that he loved him and needed him, that he wanted to live with him. That Sophie was no obstacle for him, but rather a challenge that would be manageable with a little planning. He needed to make it clear enough that John would understand. They needed to find a way, a new way. It wasn't going to be possible without emotions. Sherlock forced himself to remain calm. He needed to endure this. There was no other way.

"I'm freefalling through a lot of chaos right now, Sherlock," John said gently. "But you're here and I know there's common ground there somewhere, even if I can't see it at the moment. I've been thinking. I'd like Sophie to grow up with me. With us. If that's possible. You're the only fixed point in my life, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up, met John's eyes. Astonished and moved.

"We had common ground to stand on, where Sophie could learn to walk," John said. "We had that before you jumped off Bart's. Do you think it will be possible again?"

Sherlock stared at John. No. That wasn't possible anymore. Too much had happened between them in the meantime. The friendship they'd had back then didn't exist anymore. It had become a romantic relationship. A long time ago. This conversation was the best proof of that. No two friends would talk to each other like this. Tender and honest, their gazes locked on each other. This warmth between them.

"I want to live with you," was Sherlock's simple reply. "And there's room for Sophie here with us, in every way."

They looked at each other silently. Declarations of love. Were these declarations of love? Sherlock wasn't sure. Was he being clear enough? Did John understand him?

"If it's all right with you, I'll give up the other flat," John said. "And I'll take the job at Bart's. The one with the creche. Then Sophie will be taken care of when I'm working."

"I'm here too, John. And Mrs Hudson. And my parents. They've always wanted grandchildren." Sherlock couldn't quite suppress a smile.

John looked at him, startled for a moment, before a faint smile flitted across his face too. It was the first time Sherlock had seen him smile since Mary's death.


	9. The Mission

Sometimes it wasn't enough to just do something. No one noticed. Or took it seriously. Or it was misunderstood. Simply doing something was, surprisingly, a hit-or-miss form of communication, despite the fact that it provided much more factual evidence than words did. It was something that had bothered Sherlock as a child, and which he'd never really understood. If it was possible to act, then why speak? It had taken time for him to understand the necessity of oral communication. 

It had taken John. John had made it clear to him that people were much more focused on words than on actions. Words were more abstract and vaguer than any action, but verbal communication had unforeseen effects if you managed to forge that contact with another person. In that case, words were like magic. They set something in motion – in others and in oneself – and that motion and vibration could be directed and adjusted. Understanding could be brought about and verified. In those cases when the other person heard the words, perceived the vibrations and understood the resonance. 

John was that person. The verbal resonance between them took place on both the mental and emotional planes. That was the reason why it worked. Why it worked with John and not with others. They didn't need a lot of words between them. But they needed the right ones at the right time. It was a new experience for Sherlock, for emotions and language to be so closely intertwined. And now that he'd understood it, it became clear: both – emotion and language – were kinds of motion that created resonance. A simple concept.

Surprisingly, the realisation of their mutual verbal accessibility was followed by a diametrically opposed event that created a harmony of unsuspected magnitude. Without any words. Silent.

Sherlock had taken John along that morning to the CSIS offices, where they'd discussed the mission. Rose had been extremely reticent towards John. Maybe it was her old reservations towards her friend's husband, the father of Mary's child. Lestrade was all for John working with them again. He took on the task of pulling the HMP Holloway doctor out of circulation for two days. 

John had then gone to his own practise in the afternoon while Sherlock worked out the details of the operation with Rose. It was difficult. John would be entering a closed system they didn't have any access to. Sherlock wanted to make sure John was safe. But Rose was no longer able to use the secret entry point she'd used for Mary without being recognised. Still, she was prepared to do everything she could for John, and activated an agent who could be slipped in as an inmate at short notice to protect John. Rose was preoccupied. Her error with Mary lurked heavy and dark between herself and Sherlock as they discussed the topic. Sherlock accepted Rose's grief and sparse taciturnity. Now, without Lestrade present, Rose expressed her emotions more freely, was more approachable. Maybe because she sensed Sherlock's fear and concern for John.

John returned home late from work that evening. They sat together a while, Sherlock explained the plan to him, the security concept. John agreed to everything. It made Sherlock happy to watch him. John seemed to be awakening out of his lethargy now that he was able to work on a case again. He asked questions, make remarks here and there, was focused and lucid. The dull grief seemed to drop away from him like a heavy, wet cloak he'd taken off to allow the dynamic soldier to re-emerge. 

They sat together on the couch, looked at Sherlock's laptop together. John rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder in order to be able to move in closer, to see the screen better. He'd probably just needed a place to put his arm because it was in the way. John leaned against Sherlock's side, warm and matter-of-fact, their bodies touching unabashedly. The intimacy made a current of warmth and comfort flow through Sherlock. A feeling he'd never had before in such abundance. He leaned back against John, just lightly, confirming that it was all right, that he wanted this closeness. They only spoke of the operation, but there was a moment, a single long moment when they both paused and looked at each other. Not with surprise or confusion, maybe with wonder and quiet amazement at this closeness and familiarity. Warm breath. Accelerated heartrates. A hint of a smile, the depths of John's eyes.

John got up after that and went into the kitchen. He returned with tea, set both cups down on the table. He didn't re-join Sherlock on the couch again, instead settling in the chair across from him.

Sherlock went to bed first that night. John wanted to finish up some notes in his patients' charts. Sherlock lay awake. The moment of intimacy on the couch wouldn't leave him alone. John's reaction to it. His eyes. John's fingers pressing into his shoulder, gentle and firm at the same time. John's pulse strong, matching Sherlock's. They'd both felt it, and neither of them had run away. Neither had downplayed the situation. They'd looked into each other's eyes, a brief, tentative smile. They'd simply shared the moment. A wave of heat flooded Sherlock's body when he recalled how happy those few seconds had made him. He felt dizzy with the realisation of how much he wanted John to crawl into bed with him, to hug him. To hug him tight and hard. To allow passion. Maybe sleep with him. The thought aroused him and made him wonder. He was ready to allow it all.

Sherlock closed his eyes when he heard John's footsteps going into the bathroom. The shower. _Come to me, John._ Sherlock smiled. As a child, he hadn't doubted for a moment that it was possible to make things happen with his thoughts as long as he believed in them hard enough. A kind of secret mental magic wand, a helpless boy's vision of omnipotence. That wasn't him any more. He was a grown man who had never quite lost faith in a mental magic wand. 

_Come to me, John._ John. He would touch him, hug him, stroke and kiss him, feel his hardness, his passion, his hot skin, engulf him. Sherlock's body glowed. A quivering heat gathered in his loins. He pulled his t-shirt off over his head, unhurried, laid it on the nightstand, slid his pyjama bottoms down over his hips, his legs, slipped out of them, solemn and deliberate, placed the trousers with the shirt. His own nakedness aroused him as he stretched beneath the cover, the material caressing his body as he extended himself to his full length. All the way. He was stripped bare. He was ready for John.

John's footsteps coming out of the bathroom. He closed the door. Hesitated. _Come to me, John. I'm waiting for you._ Sherlock's heart threatened to stop when John turned the doorknob to the bedroom and came in. Sherlock tried to breathe, keep his breaths calm. John didn't turn the light on. He slipped into bed beside Sherlock. Rustling. Someone pulled on the blanket, wrapped it around themselves. A familiar smell, mixed with the tangy freshness of the shower gel. Heat. John lay all the way on the right-hand edge of the bed like always, with his back turned toward Sherlock. John breathing in the darkness of the room. His breaths were deep, more like sighs going in and out. 

Sherlock lay stretched out. Everything in him was throbbing, his pulse pounding in his ears, making him dizzy. _John. I want to sleep with you._ Sherlock was quivering with anticipation. All of his senses were focused on John. John's breaths were irregular. Sherlock noticed the unusual vibrations in the rhythm of his respiration, the rapid heartbeat. He didn't know if it was his or John's. A wave of heat rolled over him. Restlessness. Shivers. Motion. The rocking of the mattress. John turned over, turned toward him. A deep, shaky breath. _John_. Sherlock turned his head toward John, then his overheated body. Slow and languid. Cloth brushed his naked skin, fanning the flames inside him. 

_I'm ready for you, John._ Stuttering breath blew across his nose, his lips, and Sherlock reached out his hand to John, touched his hand under the cover. It grasped his back, hot and strong, and the strength and clear message it sent took his breath away.

The temperature between them ignited like pouring petrol into a fire. John's lips, cautiously brushing his while their hands squeezed together, seeking an anchor. John's hand letting go, his fingers on Sherlock's face, in his hair. John's lips suckling gently on his. Warm, moist, probing. Gasping breaths, jittery hands, John's hoarse groan when his hot body discovered Sherlock's readiness exposed. Sherlock registered only vaguely how John took off his clothes, frantic and shaking. Sherlock surrendered his mind and gave in to his body. It was surprisingly easy. His body knew the way, knew the way to John. Sherlock trusted him. He trusted John. He didn't think anymore. He just let it happen. Let himself be immersed in the exhilaration that overcame him. Let himself be led by what was happening.

He felt John, deep in that exhilaration, his proximity both startling and bewitching, felt him with every fibre of his being, with every impression from his senses, drew him in with every breath, with every heartbeat. John, who reacted to him, strong and direct. Who confirmed each of his impulses, reinforced them, returned them. A breathless game beyond any rules, their senses open wide and wrapped up in each other. John. 

There were no questions, no moments of doubt. They nestled into each other, against each other, their genitals rubbed together between their interlaced legs, the tenderness of their lips and hands wiping away everything that wasn't part of their desire, their mutual ecstasy both fulfilling and dreamlike. It led into an ebullient inferno of impulsive passion that left Sherlock and John in its wake, surprised, agitated, gasping, benumbed. They put their arms around each other and surrendered to the feeling of being lost deep inside each other. Being close. Unbelievably close. It had simply happened. They had simply let it happen. Intoxicated, natural, unquestioning. Ready for it, both of them. It was easy; so easy. Sherlock could hardly believe it. This intimacy. This intimacy with John. No resistance. No thoughts. No words, so natural it was overwhelming. They knew each other, much better than either one of them had thought possible. Knew each other deeply, in a physical sense as well. Maybe it was simply a matter of trust. Trust in each other. In every sense. Including this one.

They didn't act as if nothing had happened afterwards. But they also didn't talk about it. Sherlock was the first one to wake up the next morning. He got up carefully so as not to wake John, who was still sleeping beside him. He took a shower, then sat down in the living room to read his emails. John had got up by then too and made tea. 

He put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed it wordlessly when he set the tea down next to his laptop. Sherlock leaned back, put his hand on top of John's. He looked up, looked into John's eyes, saw that the grey was deep and open wide. He didn't say anything. Neither did John. Their hands rubbed together for a short moment. There were things that didn't need words.

***

Whatever had happened, it left its marks behind. They'd slept together, and the world had changed. Their own little world in the rooms at 221B Baker Street first and foremost. A dam had broken. They'd granted each other admittance, discovered and tasted each other and found the results delicious. It wasn't something that could just be forgotten. 

John went to work at his practise the day after their first night together. Sherlock went through the mission once more with Rose and Lestrade. He struggled to maintain a clear head. The night with John consumed him, consumed everything in the present. He waited impatiently for the night to come. Everything else was shoved back behind a glass wall. Rose seemed to notice his inattentiveness, but she didn't ask or say anything. 

When Sherlock got home that evening, John was already there, and they hugged each other joyfully, tender and affectionate. Just for a fraction of a second. Then Sherlock felt his body suddenly fill with fire, and John bit his neck with a gasp.

It was like an addiction, and it went on for a few days. Maybe they'd waited too long, should have done this long ago. They couldn't stop testing it out, again and again. They couldn't stop being amazed at what they were doing. They couldn't get enough of it. It was exciting and liberating. And it made them happy, sweeping away the daily grind with all of its heaviness and heartache. It awakened a sense of optimism, hope that the seed would bring forth shoots after a long, hard winter. And that out of those shoots a tree might grow and bear fruit.

It lasted four days and nights. Then it was time for John's mission. Lestrade had managed to get a court order requiring the doctor to cooperate. John had met with her, studied the patient files and discussed the expected treatments and work that would need to be done during his two-day assignment. Rose had gone through Holloway's floor plan with John, and he had memorised it. He received instruction on the basic technical aspects of the Copernicus satellite and took the mobile phone and doctor's bag that had been prepared for him, which concealed a tracking device, a camera, and a gun. 

The agent was activated and lay in wait as a new inmate inside Holloway. The doctor informed the prison board that she had an urgent matter she needed to attend to, and that a colleague would be covering for her. The security man at the entrance to Holloway had been instructed from on high – Mycroft's doing – to let the temporary physician come and go without review. 

Sherlock was restless. He needed to let John go without being able to help him. John was in a good mood. He'd taken all the preparations very seriously and was looking forward to finally being able to do something that challenged him.

They were in the CSIS offices. Early morning. Lestrade was quiet. Rose withdrawn. John serious and focused. Sherlock distraught. Everything was ready. The tracking device, camera and mobile phone were working. The taxi was waiting downstairs in front of the commercial centre. John looked Lestrade in the eye, clapped him on the shoulder, shook Rose's hand with a long, silent look.

"I'll come down with you," Sherlock said.

They stood facing each other in the lift, their gazes locked on each other. Sherlock knew he couldn't let John see his emotions now. John needed to remain clear and focused. The metal of the lift wall was cool under the palms of his hands. John's gaze was open but cool, he was collected and concentrating on his assignment. A soldier. Ground floor. The lift door slid open and they both exited to the lobby. John stopped. Their eyes met. John's grey eyes focused but shuttered.

"If I don't come back, Sherlock: please take care of Sophie." John's expression professional. Direct. 

Sherlock swallowed. "I promise," he whispered, struggling to get the words out.

John nodded. He looked down at the floor in front of him. He'd set down the doctor's bag, wanted to reach for it with one hand but hesitated and looked up into Sherlock's eyes one more time. The steely grey melted for a long, lingering moment, dissolved in the soft, warm depths.

"I love you, Sherlock," he said.

Before Sherlock could react, John reached up into Sherlock's hair, pulled him close and kissed him. The gesture was rough and powerful, the kiss tender and filled with an intimacy that made Sherlock reel. Their gazes brushed over each other, their fingers, before John picked up his bag, left the building through the sliding glass door and climbed into the taxi. 

It drove off, leaving Sherlock behind, numb.


	10. Heads and Tails

It was after 10 p.m. and John still wasn't back from HMP Holloway. He'd sent a text:

_Woman in labour, could go all night. JW_

Sherlock had written back a curt

_OK_

He didn't want to give himself away, didn't know what kind of situation John was in. Rose had received confirmation from the agent she'd planted that one of the inmates really had gone into labour. It could be true that John was assisting with a birth.

The three of them sat in the living room on Baker Street: Rose, Lestrade, and Sherlock. Waiting for John. Rose had looked around the flat, intrigued, no doubt registering that two people lived there. Two men. Two laptops, two sizes of men's shoes and clothing, disorder. Two sets of shaving supplies in the bathroom, two toothbrushes. Sherlock was well aware of what she saw, what she must see. He hoped she drew the correct conclusions, that she knew it was John. Anything else would have been embarrassing.

Shortly after 11 p.m., a text from John:

_Called the midwife. It's on. JW_

Sherlock was exultant and wrote back:

_Perfect!_

Rose shook her head, not following. Sherlock couldn't help grinning.

"He has the run of the place now," he explained. "The midwife will take care of the patient, John can look around and do what he's there for."

Rose twisted her mouth. "I guess you can read between each other's lines. Is John the one who lives with you?" she asked.

Lestrade glanced up with a pained expression. 

Sherlock said, "Yes, we live together."

"I thought John and Mary..." said Rose. Doubt in her voice. She didn't finish the sentence.

"They were married, and John lived with her during that period," Sherlock said with a trace of displeasure. "Any other personal questions?"

Rose gave Sherlock a searching look. "John belongs to you," she finally stated.

"He's always belonged to me," Sherlock answered impatiently, his tone of voice making it clear that he didn't intend to say anything more on the subject.

Rose's expression was sceptical. She didn't know quite what to make of that response. Sherlock found that he liked unsettling her, that he liked his own answer. It felt right. Lestrade had turned away and was acting as if he hadn't been listening. The topic of conversation was obviously distasteful to him.

 

***

 

John returned at 2 a.m. He bounded up the stairs, opened the door to the living room and announced cheerfully, "It's a boy, three point two kilos, forty-eight centimetres, hale and hearty." He laughed and went over to Sherlock, hugged him quickly but warmly. Sherlock's hand brushed down John's arm as they pulled apart, their eyes met affectionately. Just for a brief moment. 

Lestrade looked away, Rose watched them curiously. Then John turned to the others, took a CD out of the pocket of his jacket.

"I have data," he said as he went to the laptop and put the CD into the drive. "I found a CD in Verena Wilmer's safe and copied it. I'm no computer expert but as far as I can see it's about Copernicus."

The disk drive hummed as it read the data. All three of them leaned over John's shoulder as he opened the file. It was the documentation. The technical description of Copernicus-SL3, the architecture of the software, peripheral systems, configuration, coding.

"That's the documentation for Copernicus," Rose said, surprised.

"How did you open the safe?" Sherlock wondered.

John looked up and smiled at Sherlock, his eyes glittering. "I had the code," he said gleefully.

"How?" Sherlock was clearly put off by his answer.

"Verena Wilmer had a file on her desktop computer with passwords and access codes, including a six-digit numerical code. It fit the safe. I guess she has a poor memory for trivial things like passwords and safe combinations."

John beamed. Rose looked over at Sherlock. Astonishment in her eyes. She obviously hadn't expected John to be this successful.

"Did you leave any traces behind?" Sherlock asked, concerned.

"A computer expert would be able to tell someone copied the CD and poked around inside the computer. But I don't think anyone will look. I'll go back again tomorrow and try to find the server that's controlling Copernicus. Because it's not being done from Verena Wilmer's computer. There must be another one somewhere."

"There's an internet cafe in Holloway," said Rose. "The inmates can send emails and surf the internet there under supervision. They need a special login code and everything they look at is registered, and their emails are read before they're sent."

"That means there's a network and a server that saves everything," Sherlock said. "If we could hack into that..."

"I'm no computer expert, Sherlock," John reminded him.

"We'll hack it from the outside," Rose proposed. "We'll need the IP address, though."

Rose took a piece of paper from Sherlock's desk and wrote something on it before handing it to John.

"The access information for my inmate account. Use it to send an email to the address there, then call our IT man. The number's there too. He'll tell you what you need to do so he can get into the network."

John glanced at the paper. "I can only do it when no one else is around. That means at night."

"My agent will fake an emergency after Verena Wilmer's left the building and keep you covered."

"Too dangerous," Sherlock said. He'd started to pace up and down in the living room. "Isn't there another way?"

"I'm afraid not," said Rose. "The records on the server will point us to whoever's controlling Copernicus."

"If Copernicus is even being controlled from Holloway," Lestrade interjected. "What if it isn't?"

"Then we'll find that out too," said Rose coolly.

John nodded. "I'll do it," he said firmly. "I've handled worse."

 

***

 

A good hour later, Sherlock went into the bedroom to lie down with John. Rose and Lestrade had left, their plans for the next day complete. John had already gone to bed as he had to leave early in the morning. He lay on the right-hand side of the bed, his back to the middle of the bed, and was asleep. He was nude. They'd done that the past few nights, crawled into bed naked together, hungry for intimacy and uncompromising closeness. Sherlock lay down along John's back, gently embracing him, pulling him closer toward the middle of the bed.

"Mary?" John murmured, half asleep, turning toward Sherlock.

Sherlock ran his hand tenderly through John's hair, kissed his friend's face, warm with sleep.

"Sherlock," he corrected him.

John turned onto his side again, snuggled his back against Sherlock. "Good," he mumbled, his voice barely audible as he drifted off again.

Sherlock pressed his face into John's hair, inhaled his friend's scent, caressed John's naked body underneath the cover, careful, curious, aroused. He kissed the nape of John's neck, nuzzled his temple, his ear, slipped the tip of his tongue inside the curve of cartilage, felt his way along it. A surge of heat shot into his groin. John moaned in his sleep and stretched beneath Sherlock's hot hands. Sherlock breathed in the dampness behind John's ear, his eyes closed, pressed his erection into John's warm flesh, rubbed against him. John's smell, his nudity, his accessibility, all made Sherlock lose his head, whipped up his desire without him having – or wanting – any control over it. He wanted to indulge his own lust, wanted to live it, experience it, wanted to experience it with John. 

He carefully pushed his cock into the cleft between John's thighs, lifted John's top leg a bit with one arm so that he could slide in. It was close and warm there. It was good there. It was John. Sherlock moved in the tight space. It made him dizzy with arousal. But John was asleep, and he didn't want to wake him. His cock was throbbing heavily against John's perineum. Sherlock held John's hips in place, pulled back a little and thrust gently into the tight heat. He repeated the motion several times. Then he stopped. John was asleep. But Sherlock was so aroused that he couldn't just stop. Didn't want to. He lay there panting with his eyes closed, his face at John's nape. John's body was at his disposal. He could make love to John, just like this. Could satisfy his lust with him. John allowed it, had given himself up, trusting, warm, open. 

Sherlock concentrated on his penis, on the head rubbing between John's thighs, bumping against John's testicles. He concentrated on what he was doing, what he wanted to do. He imagined himself inside John, in his body, his smell, his voice, his eyes, his warm, powerful hands, his lips, his moans, his surrender, his passion, as he ramped up his own lust with small hip movements. The unheard of freedom of being able to take what he coveted so much drove him mad. When he was certain that he was about to climax, he thrust a few more times between John's thighs, quick and fast. Then deep. John moved in his sleep and Sherlock grabbed a handful of John's hair with one hand, latched onto the back of his neck with his mouth, and came hard, intense, unable to hold back a groan. 

John muttered something in his sleep but didn't wake up. Sherlock tenderly stroked his friend's hot body, his face, his hair. He snuffled at his neck, inhaled dampness and security, relaxation and happiness. He stayed between John's sticky thighs as long as possible, his arm draped over John's hip, nestled in close to him.

Sherlock lay awake a long time. It was concerning to him that his desire was so uncontrollable, that John had triggered it so quickly and easily, simply by his presence. John both awakened his passion and satisfied it. To a degree he'd never imagined, in a way that involved not only his body, but his entire being. His lifestyle, his understanding of himself, his very thoughts. He'd suspected for a while now that this dimension might be at play between them, but now the magnitude of the situation knocked him for a loop. He wondered at the fact that he could enjoy his own desire so freely. John had uncovered a hidden side to him, had ushered in a new, fascinating chapter in his life. Had conquered every part of him that he'd always considered impregnable. All of him.

 

***

 

"John?"

"I've made contact with the computer guy. We're working on it." John's voice sounded muted and tense through the phone.

Sherlock paced nervously up and down in the living room. Rose was on the laptop, following along with the events in Holloway. Her agent had reported that John was in the internet cafe. She herself was at the door, covering him. She and John had both left the infirmary in order to attend to this task. John had wrapped the warden around his finger by applying all of his charm until she'd accepted his coffee and shortly thereafter fallen into a deep sleep. It was extremely risky. If a supervisor or guard walked by to check on the presumed emergency, it would all be over. 

Sherlock wandered up and down. His insides were churning. He didn't trust how calm things were. John was in danger. He felt it, believed he could feel it. Or was it his own fear playing with his head? This new, restrictive fear for John? 

Lestrade was walking back and forth in the kitchen with a headset on, talking quietly. He stopped suddenly in the doorway to the living room. Sherlock was immediately on alert. Their eyes met. A flicker in Lestrade's eyes. 

He pushed the microphone away from his mouth and said, "Verena Wilmer just returned to Holloway."

Rose looked up, alarmed. She passed the news on to her agent right away, discussed with her what should be done.

"John!" Sherlock whispered urgently into his phone.

"I know. We've almost got it. The agent is going back to the infirmary to come up with something. I'll finish up here."

"No, John!"

"Let me do this, Sherlock."

"John!"

Lestrade put his hand on the arm Sherlock was holding the phone with, moved it away and shook his head. In the background, John was already talking to the IT expert again. Calm. Amazingly calm.

"My men are ready to intervene if anything happens," Lestrade said to Sherlock. "Let John do his job."

Sherlock huffed out a breath, slipped his shoes on and reached for his coat.

"Where are you going?" Rose asked, but Sherlock ran down the stairs without answering.

He wanted to hail a taxi down on the street, but Lestrade caught up to him, his phone still at his ear, and grabbed him by the arm.

"We'll go together," he said firmly.

The unmarked vehicle from the Yard had been waiting behind the building, and drove around promptly. They drove fast, but without a siren. They used the blue flashing lights until they got close to Holloway. Lestrade glued to his phone. Nonstop, talking to the officer in charge at the site. 

Sherlock stared out the window at the night. He felt lost. His only thought was of John. He needed to get to John. And he was scared. To a degree he'd never known before. Panic. It ate at his thoughts. The fear threatened to tear his organs right out of his body. To carve him out completely. Leaving him an empty, powerless husk. John. He needed him. Needed him to breathe. To live. Sherlock was shaking. He couldn't concentrate on what was going on. He was falling out of touch. His brain was spinning, empty. He put his hand over his face, dragged it down over his eyes. Everything was getting away from him. Was this the price he was paying for John? His mind? His lucidity? His analytical talent? 

He should have stayed with Rose, kept an eye on the big picture, not just run off. Error of judgment. Outside, the night flowed past him. He'd sent John on this mission and now he couldn't bear it. It shouldn't be like this! They'd get Sophie when this was all over. Was that what his future held? A life with John and Sophie. Routine. Harmless. Avoiding any danger because he was afraid. No more adventures. Security borne of his own impotence? No! Never. That wasn't his life. And it wasn't John's life either. 

Sherlock pressed his fist against his forehead. He needed to draw a firm line between what they were doing here and what happened between them in private. He couldn't get the two mixed up. Two sides of the same coin. Heads and tails. Tails was fate. Now it was heads. Levelheadedness, calculation. Work. Thinking. Acting. 

Sherlock called Rose. "Status?" he asked curtly.

"John's still working on it. No disturbances yet. The agent went back to the infirmary to be in a position to react if anyone shows up there."

"Good."

"Hold on..." Rose talked to someone else in the background, then came back. "Sherlock? Our IT guy's inside the network and has the server. John's returning to the infirmary to wake up the warden, and then he's out."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Thank you," he said.

Lestrade's hand on Sherlock's arm. Firm, direct pressure. "We'll be right there."

They stopped in the dark. HMP Holloway was lit up. Security lights all over. Two of Lestrade's officers were there leading up the mission, waiting in the shadows of a side street. Headsets, tense atmosphere. The special units were already inside Holloway. One in the garage, snuck in inside a prison transporter. The other in the entryway, let in by the night watchman who'd received his instructions. They were waiting. There was no reason for intervention up to now.

"Status?" Sherlock asked.

"Last we've heard, John went back to the infirmary."

"Your agent?"

"Hasn't reported in again. I assume something's happened in the infirmary to delay the plan. But I don't have any information."

"Intervene?" Sherlock asked.

"No. Wait. It could be nothing. I'll let you know."

Sherlock glanced at Lestrade, who'd been listening in.

"The men say everything's quiet," Lestrade whispered, covering the microphone on his headset.

"Verena Wilmer's in the infirmary," Rose reported. "She apparently went to get something from her office and came to check on the emergency. But it looks like John has the situation under control."


	11. Change

Lestrade pulled his men back out of Holloway once John had left the prison unmolested, the doctor's bag in one hand, dark expression, quick steps. Sherlock grabbed him and pulled him into the side street. Lestrade drove back to the Yard with his people in order to officially conclude the special unit's assignment. 

John and Sherlock took a taxi back to Baker Street, where Rose was waiting for them. John was lost in thought and withdrawn. He sat silently next to Sherlock in the back of the car. He'd responded to Sherlock's relief with a sobering look and interrupted his flood of words with a distinct hand gesture.

"Give me a few minutes, please, Sherlock."

Sherlock acquiesced. He also accepted the fact that when he took John's hand in his, John just squeezed it briefly before letting go again. They sat with their shoulders leaning against each other. Sherlock was grateful for the pressure and warmth from John's body. He closed his eyes and felt John's agitation, his gloom. Everything had worked out, but the confrontation with Verena Wilmer, the presumed mastermind and person responsible for Mary's death, had gotten to John more than expected. John had been forced to be friendly to her, to smile, to play the doctor, explain the warden's supposed fainting spell, give the all-clear and calm the waters. It had taken all that John had, but he'd done it.

"I should have shot her," John growled in a low voice.

Sherlock didn't respond to that. John hadn't shot her; he'd made sure he got out of Holloway safely. John was more reasonable and stronger than any man Sherlock had ever known. And he had nerves of steel. The mission had come to a successful conclusion. But the perpetrators were still free.

It turned into a long night. Rose's computer expert had found the computer that was responsible for controlling Copernicus. They'd also found an NAS server with encrypted and encoded access data for public buildings. All of the information was in the Holloway network. The computational capacity outstripped that of the prison's internet cafe and administrative computers by severalfold, indicating that there was a hidden computer room somewhere in Holloway. The facts were sufficient to order a house search. Lestrade submitted the paperwork right away.

Sherlock and Rose drove to the CSIS office in the wee hours of the morning, re-organised the information wall, added the new facts, and determined the circle of people involved. They couldn't afford to forget anyone for their final strike. Lestrade made a list of arrest warrants that would need to be obtained, and they put everything in writing, gathering the points of indictment. It wasn't until around six in the morning that Sherlock returned to Baker Street and fell into bed next to John, exhausted.

 

***

 

When Sherlock was awoken by the noise of the day, he found John's side of the bed empty. It must have been nearly noon; he'd only slept a few hours, and those had been restless. It was light outside, the street was busy. Sherlock got up, went into the bathroom, turned on the light, and stopped in his tracks in surprise. 

John was sitting on the toilet lid, wearing his dressing gown, his feet bare. He was hunched over, his elbows on his knees, both hands covering his face. He didn't look up when Sherlock turned on the light in the windowless room and the automatic fan came on. There was no need for gestures or explanations. Sherlock saw it right away. The wetness, the glistening tracks running out of the cracks between his fingers over the backs of his hands, dampening his lower arms and seeping into his rolled-up sleeves. John was crying. Sherlock hesitated, thought about leaving him alone, turning off the light again, giving him some space. But then he decided against it. He went to John, crouched down in front of him.

"John."

Sherlock didn't do anything more than whisper his name. He touched John's damp forearm with timid fingers. John didn't move. He was weeping silently. Still, even now. Moisture trickled down the well-formed hands into the terrycloth. John's breaths were laboured. His tears were muted and desolate. Sherlock stroked John's hands with wet fingertips, felt cautiously along the tendons, fingers, finally wrapping his hand around John's wrist and squeezing lightly. _I'm here_.

"Mary?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John nodded weakly. Mary. Dejection welled up inside Sherlock when he thought of her. He let the images pass through his mind. The preparations for the wedding. Mary's smile. Her uncomplicated nature. Her eyes when she shot him. The pain. The doubts. John. Her strength when he revealed her identity. She'd sacrificed herself for him. She could have shot him dead and remained anonymous, would have had John to herself. She hadn't done that. She'd run a deadly risk. For him and for John. Her decisiveness concerning Sophie. Ava. Agent A.G.R.A. Mary had left John and Sophie behind for him, and had gone away.

She'd left him John. John, who sat crying in the darkened bathroom. Sherlock lowered himself to the floor beside John's legs. He held onto him, wrapped around John's legs, stared at the little room that served as their bathroom. The open door leading out into the hallway. The fan. A familiar sound. Mary was missing. _He_ missed Mary. And Sophie. How was Sophie doing? 

Sherlock felt his way upward, put his hand on John's back, rubbed it, his back, his neck, his hair, his damp hands. A shudder ran through John's body. He was shaking. Something was tearing at him. He coughed. Sherlock put his arm around John and held him tight. John sobbed, took a gasping breath. Sherlock held him tight as his body convulsed. John struggled for air. A hoarse, guttural sound before he collapsed, slid down onto the floor, into Sherlock's arms, dug his hands into Sherlock and screamed silently. Waves of tremors. Rattling breaths. Choking. Gasping. Suffocating, panicked sobs that seized him like heavy cramps. Sherlock held him tight, spread his legs and drew John into his lap, held him close, silent and shaken. John was shivering. Panting. Sherlock rubbed his back. He closed his eyes when John simply gave up with a long, shaky breath and cried, let his despair flow out in hot, burning wetness on Sherlock's neck, sobs, John's fingers digging into him, painful, in cyclical waves, interspersed with uncontrollable, miserable shaking.

They sat there for a long time on the cold floor of the bathroom, leaning against the toilet. The fan kept running, uncaring. Sherlock tore toilet paper from the roll when John pulled away from him, pressed it into John's hand so he could dry himself off, passed his friend more toilet paper so he could blow his nose. He pulled John close again when a fresh bout of tears erupted. Sherlock pressed his face into John's damp hair, caressed him tenderly, waiting, simply waiting until it was over, until John lay calm and warm in his arms.

"Why did you jump?" John asked, a quiet, hoarse voice at Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock's eyes widened in shock. The question was so unexpected it knocked the air out of his lungs. He shuddered, took a long, deep breath. He was completely bowled over. By the question and by the emotions it triggered. There was fear. Fear and uncertainty. The connections revealed themselves like a chain in his mind's eye. A chain of betrayal, death and pain, the cause of which was his jump. Moriarty had burned a hole into his life that he would never be able to close. All the unhappiness had begun with that meeting at Bart's, with the lie that had excluded John, and at whose root was John himself.

"Why do you ask?" Sherlock said gently, the shock still audible in his voice.

Several long seconds passed before John answered, his voice so flat and quiet that Sherlock could barely understand him: "Mary wouldn't have happened."

Sherlock hugged John tighter and said, "We don't know that, John. You might have met her anyway."

"Maybe," John said evasively and pulled away from Sherlock.

John moved to stand, and they both got up with difficulty, their legs stiff. John placed his hand on Sherlock's arm, rubbed it gratefully.

"Met her, maybe," he said, thoughtful.

They looked into each other's eyes a long time. A field of unspoken knowledge and mutual suspicions. Then John went to take a shower.

 

***

 

Two more days passed before John asked during breakfast, out of the blue and apropos of nothing at all: "Is there a room for Mary in your mind palace?"

Sherlock let go of the teacup he'd just wanted to lift to his mouth, removed his fingers from the handle of the cup. Surprised, he looked into the grey eyes that rested on him so calmly. The familiar eyes of the man in whose arms he'd spent the night, more tender than ever. With whom he wanted to spend every night, with whom he wanted to spend his life. He'd realised it two days ago, when John had cried for Mary. He was certain now.

"There's a garden for Mary," he said lightly.

"You know a lot about her."

"Yes."

"Do you still like her?"

"Yes," Sherock replied without hesitation.

He would have liked to say that he liked her more and felt closer to her with every new detail he learned of her. But she was dead and he didn't want to talk about himself.

"Sophie's going to ask about Mary some day. I might too. Would you take her through the garden then? And maybe me as well?"

The beautiful grey eyes were wide and questioning.

"I'll tend the garden for you," Sherlock said affectionately.

 

***

 

Delicate negotiations had preceded the special mission at Holloway. A skirmish for data. The Canadian secret service CSIS wanted to bring the satellite down. The British government wanted the intelligence that the CSIS had gleaned and evaluated with their confidential M2M information-gathering module. They also wanted the list with the access data for the public buildings in order to close those security gaps. That wasn't what the Candians wanted at all, especially the first part. McDonald Dettwiler and Associates Ltd., the company that had built the satellite – including the spying components – wanted to prevent an investigation, freedom from prosecution for their employees and management, and a media blackout. The criminal judge in London wanted all of the heads to roll, including those at Interpol. She was backed up by Mycroft, who demanded the merciless exposure of the case. Interpol stipulated that their involvement in the Copernicus project remain under lock and key. The Canadian government insisted on applying Canadian law, the British British law, and Interpol international law.

The negotiations lasted four days. No real unified conclusion was reached, but in light of the time factor, everyone was prepared to compromise. There was one common denominator: everyone wanted to shoot down the satellite, keep their own hands clean, and make the entire thing go away. And so they at least arrived at a joint statement: Holloway needed to be cleaned out right away, as quietly as possible and without mention in the media. Further negotiations would follow. 

Lestrade initiated the sweep on Sunday morning without drawing any attention. His officers arrested Verena Wilmer at her house, and her husband in the computer centre in the former coal cellar at Holloway. The computer experts opened up access to Copernicus-SL3, and the people from MDA steered the satellite over the Antarctic convergence zone in earth's atmosphere, where it burned to a crisp in the midday sun without anyone taking notice.

Sherlock, Lestrade, and Rose met one last time in CSIS's temporary office to discuss the mission, made a record of the results together. John didn't join them. He saw his part as being done, and was arranging the sale of his practise. 

Peter Wilmer had already confessed to being Paul, who knew his way around Copernicus backwards and forwards. Together with his wife, he'd gotten rid of his twin brother Peter and taken on his identity. Verena Wilmer admitted that she'd threatened Mary. Mary and her husband had run into each other at Holloway and recognised each other. As a consequence, Verena had wanted to pay two inmates to keep Mary under wraps, and use her for leverage. Mary was supposed to warn Sherlock over the phone, but she'd been shot when Rose turned up with a gun and one of the other women lost her nerve. 

Magnussen's brother had already been secured. Moriarty was dead. Magnussen was dead. Steffen Boyd and Mary were dead. Everyone else connected to the Copernicus project got away scot-free. Inculding Rose. The Spider. She'd done her job in the background, her face was unknown, her name falsified.

Lestrade took pictures of the information wall. Then they gathered up all of the documents into a file folder. Rose said good-bye. Her mission was concluded as soon as the satellite burned up. She shook Lestrade's hand, thanked him courteously. Then she shook Sherlock's hand, a firm, female handshake, and said, "Take care of John and Sophie."

"Mary already made that request," Sherlock replied.

Rose nodded. She looked tired. "Good," she said pensively. And with a sharp look in her doe-brown eyes, added, "We won't be seeing each other again, Sherlock. Have a good life."

"You too."

They searched each other's eyes for two or three heartbeats, their hands still clasped. Then Rose nodded decisively, let go of Sherlock's hand, slung her bag over her shoulder and left the room without turning around or hesitating. Sherlock's heart clenched. It was as if the final connection to Mary was going away, out of his life. The last person who had known Mary – the real Mary – a fascinating woman who would remain a mystery. Forever. And who had left a child behind for him and John.

 

***

 

John visited Sophie in the Maria Stella Maris convent. Mycroft had given him the address. He went alone. Sherlock let him go, knowing that John needed some time to get himself set up, to prepare for this new life. That John needed time for his daughter, to get to know her, to learn how to act with her. John would take him along and include him when the time came.

John's colleague took over his practise. John gave him everything, including his list of patients. Then John set about clearing out the flat he'd shared with Mary. He did it quickly and with a decisiveness that Sherlock could only watch with admiration. John had never been attached to material things, just like Sherlock. John let go of everything he didn't absolutely need, reduced his possessions to the bare minimum. Maybe it was the soldier in him that deliberated what was necessary and mercilessly discarded anything that might become a burden. There were two or three mementos from Mary that John kept for Sophie. Everything else was given away, the entire contents of the household, dishes, furniture. Even his own things. Clothes, various items. He donated everything to a charity for the homeless. He also gave away the things intended for Sophie. The cradle that stood unused in the bedroom, the baby clothes that had accumulated. They were for newborns, which Sophie wasn't anymore.

"We'll get whatever she needs," John said to Sherlock. "Just that, and nothing else. Things aren't important."

"Agreed."

"I spoke to Sister Magdalena. She's Sophie's carer. You saw her when we were there."

"An impressive woman, I recall," Sherlock said.

"She says it's important for a child to be able to trust the people around them. It doesn't have to be the biological parents, and it can be several people. It doesn't matter how Sophie is taught those values, or by whom. Trust, comfort, security. What's important is simply that she learns them."

"We'll give Sophie all of that," Sherlock said. "You and I. And those people we entrust with her care."

"Magdalena gave me an address," said John. "It's not a creche, it's a child minder who cares for children in her home. I'd like you to come with me when we visit her. You see more than me and you'll notice things I'd miss."

Sherlock smiled. "Of course I'll come with you."

"And I have one more request, Sherlock. I'd like you to come with me to vespers at the Maria Stella Maris convent, and to visit Sophie afterwards."

"Vespers? Is that really necessary?" Sherlock made a face.

John smiled, a quick, amused flash deep in his grey eyes as he spoke: "Don't worry, I'm not turning pious or anything." Then, more sober: "I just want you to hear the vespers. For us both to hear it before we take Sophie with us."

"I don't see the point, but if you want."

"I do. Let's go tomorrow."


	12. Silence

John let them know he was there when they arrived at the huge, wrought iron gate. It was decorated with foliage and roses, and allowed a view of the park, which was otherwise surrounded by a high wall. They'd gotten out of the taxi and sent it away already. A woman's voice answered over the intercom, the gate's locking mechanism buzzed and let them in. 

They walked quickly and silently along the gravel path. The spring evening breeze blew through the young leaves of the old trees, making them rustle gently. The day had been sunny but still cool. They turned right at the fork in the path. Sherlock followed John, who knew the way. To the left, behind some trees, a stately home was visible, a veritable small castle. To the right, the path led to a building complex with a newer annex, surrounded by gardens. The convent. It was the former guesthouse where the nuns lived and worked, hidden away on private grounds in the middle of the park. A charitable institution that neither granted access to strangers nor maintained any public presence. Complete retreat.

John went to the little chapel off to one side, hidden behind some tall trees. Old stonework walls. They stopped in front of the wooden door. John's eyes questioning. Sherlock nodded. John cautiously opened the door. They were late, vespers had already begun. The fragrance of incense struck them as they entered. Incense, candle soot and the musky emanations of old stone. Sherlock stopped in his tracks in surprise. The tiny church was filled with a sound that washed over him like a revelation, promptly ensconcing him in a sense of peace that threatened to steal his breath away. John took him by the arm, pulling him to the right into the last pew. There were only six pews, three on the left and three on the right. All the way at the front on the left, an older woman was kneeling with a veil over her head according to the old custom, deep in prayer. The owner of the manor house. No one else was there. 

Sherlock sat down next to John in the narrow pew, looked toward the partition between the chancel and the nave at the front, a painted wooden screen with a triptych. It blocked the view of the women singing and separated the religious order's part of the church from the public side. The bewitchingly pure sound of the Gregorian chant rose over the partition, up into the plain, Romanesque vaulted ceiling, floating through the room, filling it with a purity that settled over them like a cloak, surrounding them completely. Its presence was so compelling that it was impossible to think. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the immediacy of the music. There weren't many voices, perhaps five. Five female voices in perfect unison. A current of shared breath in deep meditation. Gregorian plainsong, more than a thousand years old. Agogic vibrations of a trance. An amazing thing to experience. It relaxed Sherlock completely. He surrendered to it, buoyed up by the stream of crystal clear being. It was as if it penetrated him completely, blowing away any shadows. Sherlock listened to the words. They were in Latin. Simple, medieval Latin.

Then the hymn began in honour of the Star of the Sea, the mystical name of Mary, the namesake of the convent: Maria Stella Maris. 

Ave maris stella,  
Dei mater alma.  
Atque semper virgo,  
felix caeli porta.  
Sumens illud AVE  
Gabrielis ore,  
funda nos in pace,  
mutans EVAe nomen.

_Hail, star of the sea_  
_Nurturing Mother of God,_  
_And ever Virgin_  
_Happy gate of Heaven._  
_Receiving that "Ave"_  
_From the mouth of Gabriel,_  
_Establish us in peace,_  
_Transforming the name of "Eva"._

Sherlock shivered. He picked it out, heard the words precisely:

_AVE Gabrielis mutans EVA._

He felt sick. He stood, the sudden headache making him woozy, and left the church. He staggered out, headed for the nearest tree trunk and leaned against it. His pulse was racing. His head felt like it was going to explode. 

_AVE. EVA. AVA. Ava. Maria. Mary._ Mary was turning Eva into Ave? Into Ava? _Ava. Eva. Ave. Mary. Ava._ No! No! 

Sherlock pressed his fists against his temples. It felt like something had started up in him that he couldn't control. A mystical game with three letters. Trivial. Completely meaningless. What was going on? What was going on with him, in his head? How ridiculous! Sherlock heard himself gasping for air. John's hand on his arm.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?"

 _Ava_. Sherlock tried to breathe calmly. A cool, damp spring evening. The air fresh and invigorating. The wind playing in the leaves of the trees. He lowered his hands from his head. John was here, was close to him. That was good.

"Sudden headache," he said. "Maybe the air in there, the incense. It's gone now. Everything's fine, John. It's fine." _Maria. Ave. Eva. Ava. Mary._

John looked him over with concern, squeezed his arm. "I guess it wasn't such a good idea after all to go in there," he said.

Sherlock tried to smile. "No," he said. "Apparently not."

John took Sherlock's arm. "Sorry. I found the singing so beautiful and thought... never mind. Let's go see Sophie."

They strolled along the gravel path to the building. Close together. Sherlock didn't feel well. He didn't know why, tried to downplay it. His head was still buzzing from the sudden headache. The panic attack. It reminded him of Baskerville, of the hound, his irrational fear of the inexplicable. It was a similar feeling. Strange. There was no reason for it.

John's mobile rang. John stopped, took it out of his jacket. He took a couple of steps away from Sherlock, talked to someone, listened. Sherlock started when John grabbed his arm roughly, his face pale.

"Sherlock. Quick."

John ran off. Sherlock after him. He didn't know what had happened. The buzzing continued, the pressure in his head. They ran into the building, up the stairs, down the hall. It smellrf of paper, cleaning solution, millet and apples. Children's cries. Sherlock remembered. He also remembered the room where Sophie lay, together with two other infants. John hesitated outside the door, knocked, then went in. Sherlock followed. Two women were standing by Sophie's cot, one of them clearly a doctor, stethoscope around her neck, white coat. She looked up. John went to her.

"It's probably a cardiological problem," she said. "She was short of breath, I've given her oxygen. She need to go to hospital. The ambulance is on its way."

John nodded, asked for the stethoscope, bent over the little bed as Sherlock sank back against the wall beside the door. Dizzy. Confused. He felt sick. _Ava. Mary. Maria. Please, please leave her here for us._ Sherlock stared at the scene without processing any of what was happening. He stared at the wall on the other side of the room, the windows letting in the evening light, mild and warm. The trees outside. The weeping fig that lent the room an air of abundance and security. The other two children sleeping in their cots without noticing a thing, shrouded in peace. John and the doctor whispering tensely. John's wounded eyes seeking Sherlock's. Their eyes met across the room, a lingering look full of fear. John. Sherlock knew then that Sophie wasn't going to stay with them for long.

 

***

 

Sophie only stayed a few more days. Sherlock and John spent them with her at the hospital. A congenital heart defect. John sat beside his daughter's bed practically day and night, where she was hooked up to various machines. Sherlock stayed with John when he was with Sophie, when John gave her his pinky, which she gripped firmly with her tiny fist. He stayed with Sophie when John went to lie down for a couple of hours. Then he held out his hand, stroked the tiny fist, offered his own pinky finger, amazed at the strength with which she held on. And he watched in misery the tormented sleep of the little child, attached to all those tubes. 

Those were tense days and nights, during which the doctors ran tests and performed examinations. John and Sherlock didn't leave Sophie alone for a single minute, both ready to step up and protect Sophie if the examinations should prove too stressful. The paediatric cardiologist assigned to the case didn't give them much hope. The specialist brought in by Mycroft came to the same conclusion. Sophie didn't have a chance. John asked them to turn off the machines after ten days. Sophie's heart beat on its own for a few more hours. Sherlock and John were with her when it stopped. They stayed with their dead child until they were explicitly asked to leave. 

They went to Baker Street and sat in the living room, each in his own chair, drank a glass of whiskey and didn't speak. Night fell, and they were still sitting there, staring at nothing, lost. At some point, John got up and went to bed without saying a word.

Those days were nothing but a basic struggle to survive. A basic struggle for mental, emotional, and psychological survival. Just to get through the next hour, the next night, the next day. It was as if John had been turned to stone. His expression was hard, as if carved out of marble. His eyes empty. He functioned like a robot, made tea, drank it, ate some toast, went to sleep. 

Sherlock felt dizzy and sick the whole time. He felt as if the rug had been pulled out from under his feet. The pressure in his head. He didn't let John out of his sight for a single second. He needed him, needed the reality of his presence. Needed something to hold on to. To hold on to mentally, to hold fast to reality. 

Baker Street was still there. Their flat. Daily activities. John was there. Still there. Even if everything else seemed to be crumbling away. Their world had shrunk to the few square metres of their flat, where they locked themselves in, locked the rest of the world out. They didn't have a choice. They needed that protection. Sherlock felt as if he'd been burned, as if an inferno had burned away all of his skin, his bare, naked skin an open wound that stung beyond all reason and that couldn't stand anything on it, not even the merest puff of wind. Nothing was allowed to get close to him, to touch him. Except John. John was his balm and his protection. Him and the flat. Any outside contact was impossible. There was only one thing for them to do: wait. Wait and survive. Wait and hope that healing would set in.

Mycroft stopped by and discussed the formalities with Sherlock, with a care and caution that Sherlock never would have ascribed to him. Mycroft took care of everything, organised the burial, which was kept as short and private as possible. John, Sherlock, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Sister Magdalena. They put Sophie with Mary. They didn't publish a death notice. No one had known Sophie.

For days following the interment, they sat silent and numb in their flat. Mrs Hudson shooed away any and all visitors, brought up biscuits and sandwiches only to carry them back downstairs, untouched, the next day. John and Sherlock lived on whiskey, tea, and a bit of toast. Mrs Hudson made sure they were kept supplied without being asked. She passed through the flat like a ghost, registered only vaguely in the background by Sherlock and John. She didn't say anything, just checked whether anything needed to be done. She was the only person John and Sherlock allowed. Sherlock didn't care that Mrs Hudson found them wrapped tightly around each other on the couch and covered them, that she saw them naked in bed together and closed the blinds. That she cleaned their bathroom and washed their laundry, and tidied their kitchen. Mrs Hudson belonged to them.

After three or four days of numb silence, Sherlock said to John, "Let's take a walk, John. The air will do us good."

John got tiredly to his feet, put on some clothes and joined Sherlock. They walked through Regent's Park, shoulder to shoulder, sticking close together. It was an early summer day. They watched the ducks at the pond, and the children playing with pebbles on the shore. The sun slanted through the leaves of the trees, shining in their oversensitive eyes. They sat down on a bench by the edge of the lake and looked out at the water. The wind made the leaves of the oak tree rustle above them, and the surface of the water crinkle in a fine-lined, symmetrical pattern. The air smelled of summer and approaching heat as it brushed their faces. They leaned against each other where they sat. John had felt his way into the pocket of Sherlock's coat. Their hands were firmly interlaced in the shelter of the cloth.

After that, they took a walk in the park every day, and slowly began to re-discover words, even if they were for nothing more than the unimportant things of everyday life. What lay behind them was still encased in a shell of fear and pain and an inability to comprehend what had taken place. The verbal doorway to those things didn't open until they visited the grave. But it took more than two weeks before they dared to go to the cemetery instead of the park.

It was another warm, early summer day. They took a taxi and walked silently through the rows of old graves, all the way to the back where the newer resting places were. They slowed down when they saw the stone. John held fast to Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock stared down mutely at the stone, at the grave of Mary and Sophie Watson. Fresh grass had already begun to grown in the recently upturned soil, daisies were sprouting next to the gravestone. Sherlock reached for John's hand. John had set down the flowers. Red roses for Mary, white ones for Sophie. John had carried the white ones to the cemetery, Sherlock the red ones. Sherlock had held onto the long stems tightly on the way. The thorns had poked through the thin paper, into his hand. He'd felt the pricks and only squeezed harder, wanting the pain, welcoming the blood. The sticky liquid adhering to the paper, secretly uniting with the flowers. And now that he was holding John's hand, sticking to John's palm. The same way their genitals stuck together with semen when they made love.

"A part of both of us is buried down there," John said quietly. "My wife, your friend. My child, your name. Our hope. Our future."

"Not our future, John," Sherlock corrected him. "It's our past that lies buried there. Both of our pasts. The future lies before us."

They stood there a long time, lost in thought, not speaking. They turned in different directions when it was time to go, John to the right, Sherlock to the left. They didn't let go of their hands, looked at each other in surprise. Sherlock didn't know exactly why he didn't want to go back, why he wanted to stay here, to keep walking amidst all the monuments, stony witnesses of the past. John let himself be dragged along. They strolled together between the graves, not speaking, found a bench in the older part of the cemetery and sat down in the shade of a beech tree. 

"So," said John after a while, reflective. "You're the only thing left in my life."

"And I'm going to stay with you, John. Forever, if that's what you want."

"Till death and fate do us part." John sounded bitter.

"Nothing can tear us apart, John. No one can take away what we share. Just as no one can take Mary and Sophie away from us. They'll always belong to us."

Sherlock squeezed his friend's hand. Firm. Warm.

"When I fall," John said quietly, staring out into the distance, "I always fall to you. Over and over again. I know that now. I never would have thought I'd be able to say that to another person. But it's the truth."

"My arms are open," was Sherlock's simple reply. He knew that he'd fallen long ago. Completely and irrevocably. 

 

THE END


End file.
